


Before The Storm

by Devanelle



Series: Broken Chains and Broken Bonds [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), mage templar romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:27:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22706932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devanelle/pseuds/Devanelle
Summary: Nethalia Surana has been able to float by under the Templar's noses for years with her meager magic, but after an altercation on a Lord's estate she finds herself in the Circle Tower at the mercy of those who would see her dead or worse. Still, she finds herself inexplicably drawn to a Templar that holds her life in his hands. With tensions brewing in the tower walls and outside it, Nethalia will need to tread carefully to avoid catching herself in the middle of the coming war.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Surana
Series: Broken Chains and Broken Bonds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633174
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

The outer walls of Denerim were the furthest from the city Nethalia had ever traveled since moving to this country. They left them behind nearly a week ago. The countryside passed her by through iron bars. She stared with rapt attention for the first few hours, but eventually it all began to blur together. They rode through nameless village after nameless village. Sometimes the children would run out to greet them, their mothers quick to pull them back. A carriage of iron ment only one thing; Apostates. 

Once they might have made them out of wood, though she assumed it only took one or two burnt carriages to change the approach. Try as she might, Nethalia could not summon a flame in her palm. She never could before, but if there were ever a time for fire it would be now. The cold from the metal seeped into her bones, she had only her linen work dress to protect her from it. Shivers wracked her body, and her chattering teeth sent an ache from her jaw into her pulsing skull. 

The man sitting across from her looked like death, or as near to it as she’d ever seen. His skin was sallow and his eyelids drooped closed as their own leisure. He was old to her, though no so far from her parents age. His clothes were threadbare and full of holes. At some points she could see his skin through the many layers. He kept her up at night, mumbling a name to himself.  _ Eagan. _ He said it over and over, the word spilling unbidden from his cracked lips. His ruined voice amplified by the metal walls around them. At first it kept her from sleep, but eventually she found herself wanting to join his chant. 

The mana suppression weighed heavily on all of them, like a iron mail blanket, but he fared worse than most. He started from its effect only once, sitting up suddenly, eyes wide for the first time in days, staring straight into her own. She scrambled backwards prepared for him to lunge across the cart at her, but he only pulled off his cloak and set it about her shoulders. He slumped back down and rose only when the Templars came to bring water and allowed them to relieve themselves along the road. 

Embarrassment burned her face the first time she stepped from the carriage, and the Templar gestured at the ground beside them. She realized she would not be without supervision, and she almost climbed back into the carriage, but she had not been allowed out of the room they held her in before the Templars arrived and she would not soil herself. It was by no small mercy that the Templar commanding her was a woman. 

He other travelling companion was a young human boy dressed in blue velvet with silver buttons, just old enough to think himself a man. He stared at her cow-eyed when he first saw her waiting in the back of the carriage as he climbed in. Perhaps he was expecting a private escort, or perhaps she reminded him of his nursemaid, she didn’t care to find out. He wasn’t bad company, when he wasn’t asking questions she had no way of knowing the answer to or trying to cozy up with her at night. It took only one sharp kick to the jewels to put an end to that. Lords’ sons learned entitlement young, and she had no patience for wandering hands at present. He cried for his mother at night when he thought she was asleep, and Nethalia tried to pretend she was not a few stray thoughts from doing the same. 

Fereldan was not known for its natural beauty, and so it was only a matter of time before her mind wandered to the circumstances that landed her in the back of the cart. She didn’t suppose she would live her whole life in the Alienage, but she had a hard time picturing anything else. Her father would leave for the docks before sunrise every morning, the door closing marking the start of her day. She would help her mother fix breakfast and braid her sisters hair. Sometimes Aela would be waiting for her at the gates of the Alienage, but most days she needed to be roused from bed, and they would walk to the estate together for work. This was to be her life for the foreseeable future. 

Her magic was nothing to gawk at. She discovered it one day when she playing with her baby sister, she made a wooden bird take flight straight into the soup her mother was cooking. Her mother’s startled scream woke her father. It was not nearly as grand or dangerous as the stories, in fact her magic was little more than a nuisance in the coming years. She was bid to keep it a secret from everyone but her family, and her parents pleaded with her to not practice at all if she could help in. Fereldan was not like her home country, she would be taken from her parents, or killed. So she kept in in, she didn’t tell anyone and for the most part she could ignore it. 

The Templars had a hard time finding her in the crowded Alienage, and most days they didn’t deign to step foot among them. Every once in a while something would happen when she got angry, or excited, but she was quick to cover her tracks. Pushing down emotions was not an unfamiliar sport to an elf, and so it followed that suppressing her magic came easily to her. When she felt a flicker of it, tingling in her fingertips she clenched her fists and willed it away. 

It was only a matter of time then she supposed, the magic she’d pushed down and stifled for years would come bubbling to the surface on day in full force. The specifics didn’t matter, she was found in a knight's room binding him to the floor with the now monstrous roots from a potted bush. She and Alea fled to the Alienage, which in turn brought the Templars upon all of them. It was no choice at that point. She was taken before she could see her parents and say she was sorry. 

The cart rocked to a halt, and Nethalia stood. The iron doors swung open and the boy, Micah as she’d learned, jumped first to help her down, though he had little more height to boast of than her. The first time he did it she ignored his outstretched hand, but the drop  _ was _ tall and it didn’t hurt her to let him practice his misplaced chivalry on her. She stretched her achy limbs and let the sun warm her skin. She fought the urge to sway on the suddenly solid ground. 

“Is that it?” Micah asked, pointing to something on the horizon. 

Nethalia shielded her eyes from the sun with her palm and squinted. There was a structure rising out of the lake, taller than anything she’d ever seen. The sun glinted off the surface of the lake making it hard to look for too long, but it was undeniable, cold and defiant against the heat of day. A heaviness as cool and immovable as marble found its place in the pit of her stomach. She could not look away, this would be her new home for the rest of her life, as long as she was alive. The heaviness in her stomach grew into a gaping maw of despair that threatened to swallow her. 

One of the Templars must has sensed it because he turned his body to place himself between her and escape. He needn’t worry, for her feet were rooted firmly in place. The older man however, whose name she never learned, came tumbling out of the cart in a rush. He knocked poor Micah into the dirt and slammed into the templar, taking his sword with him. The templar shouted, readying himself for a fight but the man had collapsed onto his knees only a few paces beyond. The stolen sword jutting from his back. 

Nethalia clapped her hands over Micah’s eyes before he could realize what he was seeing. The old man tilted his head back, the sun warming his pallid skin. As blood dripped from his slack lips she realized with horror that he was smiling. The other Templar rushed him, thinking this was some move for blood magic taking the man’s head clean off his shoulders. She screamed then. An uncontrollable yelp that seemed as if it came from someone else.

They were shoved back into the cart unceremoniously and the lock clicked into place. Micah clawed at her hands and she realized she was still covering his eyes as they lay in a heap. She untangled herself and stumbled over to the small barred window. She could see neither head nor body, but the growing pool of blood had stretched far over the ground, staining the earth. Micah moved join her but she planted her hand against his chest, halting his advance. She turned from the window and slumped down in front of it. She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders to ward off the chill that raced down her spine. 

Micah’s face was pale, he’d seen enough. He too slumped down across from her and started to cry. He made no move to hide his tears from her, and she did not push him away when his toes butted up against hers in the narrow space. She hoped it was because the man wanted to be with Eagan, because he was some great lost love and the grief had been too much. It was wrong to hope that a man had lost his love and only death could reunite them and stay his grief. 

But it was better than thinking about the tower on the horizon.

*~*~*~*~*

In the shadow of the Kinloch Hold, Nethalia had to force herself to breath. Her nails carved runnels into the underside of her seat. She ignored the iron grip of a armoured hand upon her arm. It was not meant to hurt, it was merely a warning of hurt to come should she try to pitch the boat over or throw herself into the black waters. The templar piloting the boat tied it off once they docked at the base of the small island the tower was built on. She was half helped half dragged up the steps. She didn’t get much of a chance to look around before being ushered through a massive pair of doors. 

As terrifying as the building was on the outside, it was far less so inside. The walls were bathed in firelight from hanging sconces and people rushed about the corridor. The bustle reminded her of the Denerim market, and she thought she even saw a stall or two with merchants peddling their wares. The templars escorting her and Micah were met by three templars. Two flanked one, arms crossed. Nethalia thought it might be for the best that she could not see their expressions. The man in the center spoke. 

“You’ll be wanting to report to the Knight Commander, afterwards you’re welcome to rest and resupply.” 

For a moment Nethalia though they were speaking to her, but the templar holding her let go of her to cross her arms in salute. They walked past and she was given a new escort. She glanced around as she was led through the tower. The ceilings were so high up the light from the sconces couldn’t fully chase the shadows from the corners. There were bookshelves taller than most houses in the Alienage and no shortage of curious eyes. She made a point of avoiding them altogether by keeping her head straight forward and her expression tight. Micah seemed to delight in the attention, or at least he didn’t shy from it, waving at every other person he saw. 

They were led up several wide staircases and Nethalia’s breath came out in short bursts when they finally stopped outside another door. The templar leading them knocked once, and a man’s voice bid them enter. The templar beside her pushed her towards the door and she spared a glance at Micah’s flushed face before the door shut behind her. 

An old man with long grey hair and a longer grayer beard sat across a behemoth desk and gestured at the chair across from him. She stood in the middle of the room unsure he was speaking to. He looked into her eyes and smiled kindly. She faltered a moment before curtseying and stumbling to take a seat. 

“I can take it from here, thank you.” The man said over her shoulder. The templar lingered a moment, before exiting the room, the door clanging with finality. 

She folded her hands in her lap and stole glances at the furniture around her. Most of it was ornate, but old. Even the desk had seen better days. Cluttered with papers and devices she had no name for. A wooden staff as tall as her rested against the desk. He was a mage then. 

“You need not be afraid, child. You will not come to no harm here.” His voice was warm and gentle, so she suppressed the urge to snort. “My name is Irving, I am the First Enchanter here, which means that I oversee all the mages than reside here.” He shuffled the papers on his desk drawing one from the stack. “I’m going to ask you a few questions and you’ll be free to settle in.” 

“I understand you’re from the Denerim alienage.” He stated. “How old are you?”

She considered lying to him, but she saw no harm in the truth. “Eighteen, Ser.” She winced at the address. Perhaps she should have called him my lord. 

“You can drop the formality dear. There’s no use for that here, we’re all equal in the eyes of the Maker.”

She drew her eyes up to meet his. He did not get angry or reachacross the desk to slap her for insolence, so she kept his gaze. It felt strange, but she would not grovel needlessly. “Much better.” He tutted. 

“How old were you when you came into your magic?” He asked. 

Would he be angry if she told him the truth? Harboring mages was illegal. The last thing she wanted was to have her parents hauled off and leave her sister an orphan. So she decided on half truths. “Twelve, but I kept it secret from everyone.” 

He accepted this and moved on. “Were there any other circumstances when you lost control of your magic? Besides the event that led to your apprehension?” 

She winced. “Nothing of note, Ser.” She fell back into placation, as was second nature to her. He frowned a moment scanning the page in front of him. The candle on his desk light the page, though she could only make out every other word. She saw her name, which she’d given freely upon her capture. 

“Very well.” He said, standing. “Welcome to the Circle of Magi. You’ll attend an assessment first thing tomorrow to measure your abilities, then you will be assigned classes to better control and improve your skills. You’ll sleep in the apprentice quarters and take your meals in the Great Hall. Do you have any questions for me?” 

She shook her head, though in truth she was teeming with questions. “Wait here a moment.” He went to the door and in stepped a bald woman. A golden sunburst stood out against her dark brow. Her expression was blank as she approached the desk. Irving took his place behind his desk but he did not sit. 

The woman loomed over her, gazing down. “Your hand please.” Her voice was completely devoid of emotion. Nethalia looked to Irving, who nodded encouragingly. 

She placed her hand in the woman’s palm and the woman drew a knife and a glass vial. Nethalia yanked her hand back and stood. The chair clattered to the floor behind her. “It’s just a precaution,” Irving said, raising his hands to her as if she were a wild animal. “We take a little blood so the Templars can track you should you escape. It’s standard procedure, I assure you it’s completely safe.” 

If she didn’t comply, she had no doubt they would bring a templar in to hold her down and take it anyway. She had only the  _ illusion _ of choice. Nethalia tentatively held out her hand, at least this way she would appear cooperative. She looked away as the knife bit into her skin. The woman sliced her across her palm and squeezed Nethalia’s fist in her own. Nethalia grunted and tears stung her eyes. She felt the blood drip from her skin into the phial waiting below. The woman withdrew and closed it with a glass stopper. 

“Here.” Irving said taking her hand. A blue light emanated from his hands as they encircled hers. It was cool and soothing and she stared open mouthed as her flesh knit back together, her skin as new as the day she was born. Only the blood remained, which he wiped with a cloth from his pocket. 

  
  


There was another knock at the door, quieter than the templar that accompanied her. “Enter.” Irving called as he tucked the cloth back into his robes. A woman entered. Her robes were a different color than Irving’s. 

Irving turned to Nethalia. “Ana here will show you around the tower, give you a better lay of the land. If you ever have need of anything feel free to find me.” He nodded to dismiss them and Nethalia had no choice but to follow the woman as she left. 

She was tall, even for a human, and Nethalia found it difficult keeping up with her long strides. She gave a dispassionate explanation of each room as they passed by, not stopping to greet any of the many mages that crossed their paths. There were a few curious glances, but people seemed to steer clear of the pair. They passed many more of the bald people with the sunburst brand and Ana called ‘tranquil’ maged who’s been cut off from the fade. Nethalia had of course heard of such a practice, but it was so rarely invoked in her home country it was little more than a scary bedtime story.They fade is where all beings went to dream, save the dwarves; children of earth. She wondered if the tranquil just felt the empty expanse of unconsciousness, or if they merely closed their eyes at night and opened them in the morning. 

“The Templar’s quarters are on the fourth floor. You are never to go there, any under circumstances. You’ll find it regrettable.” Ana spoke not unlike the first tranquil woman Nethalia met, but her dark eyes flashed with some indistinct emotion. “Here at the apprentice quarters. This one is for the women, the one for men is on the other side of that wall. You are not allowed in the men’s quarters after dark. Similarly, apprentices must keep to the curfew. Do not get caught outside your quarters after that.”

“I’ll find it reggretable?” Nethalia couldn’t help herself asking. 

Ana’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.” She pushed the bundle she’d been carrying into Nethalia’s arms before turning on her heels. 

Getting dressed in the new robes was simple, the garment was largely one piece with a single overlayer and a belt for ornamentation. Still, she hesitated drawing her dress over her head, feeling eyes on her. Her family’s house was larger than most in the alienage, two rooms, one of which was the common area. She was not shy about getting dressed among other women, she even shared a bed with her sister. The close quarters would be a comfort, or so she hoped. Rather, she was unused to the unabashed scrutiny. She dressed quickly and tucked her old dress and the cloak into the chest at the foot of her bunk. 

A few people smiled and said a few words in greeting, but Nethalia was not receptive to them. A thought had lodged itself in the back of her mind, and it would only be a waste to make friends. Ana had mentioned getting something to eat from the kitchens, as Nethalia had eaten nothing but stale bread in last week. Right now she needed food, later she would plan. 

  
  


*~*~*~*~*

  
  


Cullen walked down the corridor, his mind fixed upon the roast they’d had for dinner. He was on duty at the time but the smell made his mouth water for the duration of his shift. Hopefully the cook set some aside, along with the roast potatoes and carrots. He wasn’t typically one to sneak down to the kitchens during his shift, but if he waited for his brothers in arms to get off as well he’d have to fight tooth and nail for a good cut, and well, it was his favorite.

The smell of fresh bread and gravy wafted towards him and he picked up his pace ever so slightly. It was after hours and most of the apprentices were in their rooms by now. Only the odd mage or so dotted the halls. Which is why he was surprised when a mass of dark curls slammed in squarely in the chest as he rounded the corner. The apprentice went tumbling to the ground with a soft gasp. She was new, he knew that much right away. He would have recognized her.

Her grey eyes were striking against her warm brown skin, and they were fixed upon his helmet. Or would have been, had he not removed it at the end of his shift. He realized she was watching him, waiting for a reaction. He stooped and offered his hand to her. She stared at his hand a moment before grabbing it. She was small, just a slip of a thing really, he discovered too late, pulling a tad harder than he needed to. He winced as she thumped into his chest once again from the force. 

“Er. Sorry.” He released her hand and stepped back. Her head only came up to his shoulders, short for an elven woman. He had to double check, but there were pointed ear just barely sticking out from her hair. 

She bent her knees as if to curtsey then straightened suddenly. “Thank you.” She mumbled and stepped around him stiff backed. He behavior was so odd he turned to watch her go. She walked to the end of the hall, stopped, then turned around and walked back towards him. 

Cullen’s brows rose as she approached him. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

She looked pained for a moment, weighing her words like they cost her gold. “Could you point me to the kitchen?” Her accent was thick, but not impossible to understand. She was the dangerous apostate they’d been briefed on earlier in the week. He almost laughed. 

“Of course.” He said instead. “I’m headed that way now.” He started walking and snuck a glance sideways at her. She was not what he pictured. Greagoir was vague on details, but he mentioned the new mage was involved in an altercation at the Cousland’s Denerim estate. She had attacked some knight or lowly lord, and was found hiding out in the Alienage. It didn’t take long for the templars to flush her out, they just started asking questions and the girl appeared to turn herself in. His Lordship of the estate determined she was at no fault, but an apostate could not be allowed to roam free so instead of sending her to Aeonar, she was placed in the Ferelden Circle. 

The entered the kitchen to find it empty save for two tranquil, who were prepping the nighttime meal for the Templars on duty through dinner. He coughed to get their attention. “Is there any chance I could have a plate made up?” He remembered the girl by his side, “Two plates.” He corrected. One of the tranquil nodded and set about drawing plates from the wash basin. 

Cullen pulled a chair over to the end of the work table and sat down, groaning as he went. He heaved a sigh and pulled his gauntlets off. He felt eyes on him. The girl had opted to sit across from him at the other end of the table. It would have been comical if she weren’t darting fearful glances his way every so often. Right. Three mages left from Denerim, and only two walked through the front doors. Whatever happened on the road had certainly done little to endear templars to her. Regardless of the merritt in his cohorts actions.

“My name is Cullen.” He offered. 

She eyed him, taking in his face and chest, skipping over the flaming sword emblazoned there. “Nethalia Surana.” 

“So you’re not from Fereldan then?” He asked, grasping at something to fill the silence while they waited.

“Rivain.” She answered. “I moved here when I was seven.” 

That surprised him, “Forgive me, but I assumed it was more recent.” He wondered what she thought of her current circumstances. He’d heard the Rivaini circle was incredibly lax, compared to their southern branches. Most of the Rivaini people weren’t even Anstrastian. He didn’t know what they did worship, though he’d heard the gossip. The tranquil set a bowl in front of him, stew made from the leftovers. 

“I refused to learn the King’s tongue, when we first arrived,” She said, the corners of her mouth curved upwards into a small smile, “I was so determined we would return home that I spent the first year only speaking my mother tongue. It did not come easily after that.” 

Her full lips curled around the words forcing them to bend to  _ her _ will. Even if she spoke the king’s tongue now, she had not given in entirely. He realized he was smiling when she returned it with a smile that set her eyes alight. It sent a jolt straight through his heart and his face heated. He mumbled something into his bowl. It occurred to him it wasn’t wholly appropriate for him to be alone in the kitchens with an apprentice, tranquil present or no. He passed the rest of the time pretending to be interested in gulping down his stew. 

She watched him, as she ate, but her thoughts must have drifted elsewhere because she looked through him more than at him. He stood to leave and thanked the tranquil for dinner. She stayed seated and he cleared his throat. 

“I’ll walk you back, the other templars may wonder why you’re out after curfew.” They might wonder why she was out after curfew  _ with him,  _ but he was armed with the truth. She was a new arrival and was having trouble finding her way around. He was eager to be rid of her and back in his room in the tower. Still, he found himself lingering a moment when the door to the apprentice quarters closed behind her.    
  


  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Nethalia and Micah attended their assessment together. Despite everything, the boy was delighted to see her. The horrors from their trip swept away with the excitement and bustle of the tower. They were asked to perform a series of tasks, to predict their aptitude for the different schools of magic. Many of the task were almost insulting in their simplicity, and Nethalia was failing each set before her miserably. 

The two attending senior mages hm-ed and scribbled away as she struggled to make the wick of a candle do so much as smolder. In truth the small stream of smoke slithering into the air may have been from when Micah nearly set the table top ablaze, candle included. She heard the woman wonder to the man if the Templar were not mistaken in her apprehension. Nethalia’s own mind echoed the sentiment. She could feel magic, she could feel the veil as surely as she felt the stone beneath her feet; but when she bid it come forward it met some unseen resistance. Her mind was a dam, and her magic a feeble trickle from a spigot at the base. 

To her relief, she was able to heal a small cut one of the man cut into his arm, albeit with a scar, but she could not help the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She coaxed a frozen bud into a full fragrant bloom, even the taciturn woman clucked her tongue in appreciation for. She accomplished a few more small victories, which paled in comparison to Micah’s display of raw elemental magic, but they were the first feats of magic she was ever encouraged to perform, and they were hers. 

She eyed the flower left forgotten on the table, and she was reminded of twisting vines, wrapping themselves like snakes around that man’s throat and arms. Her friend scrambling wide eyed out of his grip gasping for air. Aela’s eyes flew to her own hands, as if she half expected the vines to be growing from her fingertips. Then they went to Nethalia, who was as frightened if not more, as the vines reacted to her hate, anger and fear. If Nethalia were angry now, would she be able to do more to the flower? 

The creaking of armor wrenched her back into the present and she stiffened under the templar’s gaze. She felt it boring through her, attempting to pull the contents from her head into the open. For a moment she feared he may have already guessed her thoughts, but he made no move to strike her down, so she resigned herself to the truth that only mages could read minds. 

Afterwards they were asked to write a few lines, nonsense copied from a scroll atop the desk, followed by a few lines about themselves. Nethalia wrote absently. 

_ I lived in Denerim with my mother, father, and sister. I now live in the Circle Tower with other mages. I look forward to learning more about magic and the fade. I would like to explore the library.  _

She stared at the words, and her heart pinched, thudding unevenly against her ribs. 

“Such penmanship!” The man exclaimed, holding her page aloft for his colleague to see,his dark brows rising up to his hairline. “Did your master teach you to to write?”

“My mother.” Nethalia snapped, her ears growing hot. She clenched her hands in her robes and lifted her chin, meeting his eyes with her own steely gaze. 

“That’s quite a feat.” He muttered, withered by her stare. 

Micah’s writing was accepted without comment, though his face was flushed. She could see the spots on his page where the ink bled through, pooling where he hesitated.

*~*~*~*~*

Nethalia’s first few weeks passed with relative ease. It was easy to fall into the rhythm of the tower, and she found after a time that she liked the rigor of her classes. She attended most of her classes alongside children, as it was more common for mages to be turned in by their family or friends the moment their magic reared its head. There were a few like her that were discovered by some accident or tragedy, but she was surprised by the number that were betrayed by parents or lovers. She wondered if they still wrote letters home. Nethalia made a point of writing a letter every day, she had no way of paying for the postage, but she tucked each letter into an envelope under her bed until she earned or borrowed enough coin to send them. 

Keeping the tower running with so many people living in it was far too large a feat for the tranquil alone, and there were no kept staff save a single cook. Whether that was due to fear of compromising the security of the tower or a lack of willing servants she could not say, and so it fell to the apprentices. They were assigned a work duty, an afternoon a week wherein they were excused from their classes to aid in the maintenance of their home. They were paid a pittance, less even than her sister earned running laundry for their mother’s mistress. Nethalia relied on it entirely to send her letters. 

Enchanters and Templars alike were allowed to assign extra work duties as punishment for misbehavior. What constitutes misbehavior varied wildly from person to person and so it was that Nethalia found herself on a work duty scrubbing the floor in the great hall alongside a half dozen tranquil for ‘insolence’ towards a Templar. The moment passed so quickly Nethalia was unaware of the crime she commited until she was summoned by the offended Templar. 

Her back ached and she sat up on her haunches to roll her shoulders. The man across from her blew his hair out of his face and sat up with her. He’d introduced himself as Jowan. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” He said tapping the brush against the rim of the bucket, “How is it you managed to keep all of that.” He pointed to her ears and her face. She had to resist the urge to touch the number of gold hoops in her ears and the single small stud in her nose. 

She shrugged. 

“That’s exactly the sort of thing the templars like to ‘confiscate’ before you get to the tower.” He kept his voice low, eyes darting to the suit of armor standing against the wall opposite them. 

“They were not going to get them without taking pieces of me with it. I suppose it was not worth the trouble.” The jewelry in question were gifts, from her own mother’s collection. Most Rivaini women received jewelry for their birthdays; spouses gave to wives, and mothers gave to daughters. It was a well honoured tradition in her family. When the money they brought with them ran out, her father began trading some of their old furniture for a few of her mother’s newer pieces. 

Jowan scoffed, but he did not elaborate on his doubt. They both doubled over their work as a templar passed by to relieve the one stationed at the doorway. The blackness from the opening in their helms unnerved her. It was impossible to guess where exactly their eyes landed, which was likely the purpose. Besides Knight Commander Greagoir and the man she met her first night in the tower she has not seen another without their helm in the presence of a mage. To her knowledge, she had not crossed paths with Cullen again, though it was impossible to know for sure. 

“They can’t  _ all _ be that bad.” She murmured to Jowan. She dipped her brush into the cold muddy water and pushed the brush along one of the many seams in the stone floors. The tower was old, and it seemed most of the mages in the tower were unfamiliar with the proper way to wash a floor. Even Jowan appeared to be making the motion more than actually cleaning. 

“Most of them aren’t. But enough are, and the rest don’t care.” He said. 

“That’s not true.” Keilli, the other mage on their work duty chimed in. “They are here to protect the world from us, and us from ourselves. It is a selfless pursuit. And rather dangerous.” 

Jowan bit his lip and shook his head. Nethalia fought the urge to snort. Most of the templars days were passed by imitating statues and scaring the occasional apprentice. Nethalia had not seen any real danger since arriving in the tower, besides the occasional stray fireball, but the senior mages were quick to douse the flames before templar involvement was needed. 

Her eyes wandered once more past Keilli and Jowan to the Templar along the wall. She knew who he was, only because he brought her here for some comment she made to herself as she passed in in the hall. Philippe was his name. Jowan shrank away from him as they all made their way to the Great Hall. He had… a reputation. She didn’t know the certainty of the truth behind it, gossip traveled quickly in the tower, gathering embellishments and speed like a snowball on a hill. She’d heard a few bits about herself that made her cackled. 

A tranquil woman passed Philippe and he grabbed her by the arm nearly causing her to drop her bucket of dirty water. His helm was nearly pressed against her ear as he said something imperceptible. His hand dropped and disappeared behind her. The tranquil woman started and pulled away from him, her face as impassive as ever. His head turned towards Nethalia suddenly and she forced her eyes downwards. 

Sweat prickled in her armpits as her heart hammered away in her chest. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see steel clad boots move away from the wall and cross the floor towards her. Jowan picked up on her panic and glanced in Philippe’s direction. As he approached his foot swung out connecting with their bucket of dirty water. Nethalia jumped backwards and stumbled away from the spreading water. Jowan took the brunt of it, his robes soaked to his knees. 

“You should pay closer to your work next time.” The voice came out low and hard from behind the helmet. He stepped closer to her and Nethalia could see his eyes gleaming from the dark as he towered over her. “No one likes a sloppy knife ear.” 

Anger bubbled in her gut, hot and putrid and she wanted nothing more than to spit it on his boots, but she cast her eyes down. Steam began rising from the water near Jowan’s feet and Nethalia shifted to cover it from Philippe’s view. “Of course Ser.” She mumbled into her chest. She kept her eyes down until his boots left her sight and she was sure he once again rested against the far wall. He breath came out in a sigh. 

“Help me clean this.” She said to Jowan. Keilli was conveniently scrubbing much further away now, her back to them. She probably thought they brought it on themselves for speaking ill of their protectors. 

“It’s not right.” Jowan muttered, his fists finally unclenching. “They’re the ones who should be afraid.” 

Nethalia shot him a warning glance, but said nothing else. That little worm in the back of her mind inched its way to the forefront. She wondered what would happen if she just walked out the front doors. The templars would try to stop her on approach, but she could grow vines, monstrous and angry, like her. The thorns would tear and silence them as she walked past. She would rip the doors from the hinges with her mind, her magic pouring out of her unbidden leaping to action before she even had to think it.

But she could still do little more than grow plants into a natural maturation. Her shoulders slumped and she ignored the rest of Jowan’s attempts as conversation. 

Nethalia was used to ducking out of the way of self important humans, noblemen and paupers alike. She knew the right words to soothe an injured ego so that she would leave the altercation unharmed. She knew how to make her face a blank slate, not like the tranquil, but a placid agreeable expression meant to lull her superiors into believing she was nothing more than a sycophantic worm, ever eager to please. She would do what she needed to so she could live another day. 

*~*~*~*~*

That night she heard them for the first time. Her anger earlier in the day an open wound, calling to something in the fade she did not see but felt. She dreamt she sat at the fire in her family home. The light from the flames reached little beyond a small circle around her. She scooted closer but she felt no heat from the flame. Her mother’s chair was empty, her sister’s book left open on the cushion. She could not hear her father snoring from the other room. She knew the house was empty without looking. 

_ You know where they are.  _

The words were not spoken aloud, it was not a voice at all. They slithered through her head as if they belong to her, but they  _ felt _ wrong.

_ You are weak, but your wrath runs deep. Let me help you. _

“No.” She said forcefully, her voice stopped just past her lips, travelling no further than the edge of the firelight. 

_ I don’t want to hurt you. We can go together. Out the doors across the lake. Wherever you want.  _

“I don’t want your help.” She gritted out. 

_ Then  _ I _ will go to them. You will never see them again. I’ll burn them to ash. _

A shape emerged from the fire then, and she jumped to her feet. The chair made no sound as it toppled backwards. A twisted blackened hand, reached out towards her pulling itself from the fire. The flames danced across the gold at its neck, her mother’s neck. Nethalia stood rooted to the spot. Unable to speak, or move or do anything as the creature climbed from the hearth. Its head tilted back, mouth wrenched open in a silent scream. 

She sat upright in her bed, her own mouth opened mirroring her mother’s, but her scream was not silent. A pitiful wail spilled from her mouth, barely louder than a whisper. Her night dress was icy, sticking to her slick skin. Her bunkmate said something in the dark and she heard whispers to her right. She sucked in another ragged breath and slumped back onto her bed. She could not stay the sobs that wracked her body. 

“Here.” A voice said. Something cold pressed at her fingertips, and she flinched away. “It will help calm your nerves.” It was pressed gently but firmly into her hand. 

Nethalia sat up and stared into the dark at the face across from her. It was the girl from the bunk above her. She couldn’t remember her name at the moment. She pulled the stopper with shaking fingers and gulped down half the contents of the bottle before the girl pulled it back. She coughed as the liquor burned her throat, but it left a warm feeling in her stomach and chased away the chill that followed her through the veil. 

She only lay awake another hour, until she was swept away into blissful oblivion. 

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Once the excitement of the tower became normal, the days seemed to stretch on impossibly. Before she had work to keep her occupied, duties to her family, time with her friends, but now her days were filled with emptiness. She was not completely alone of course, she lived in a tower with so many other people she could scarcely keep track of all of them. People moving and living their lives parallel to a dozen others in the same space, much like a crowded market square. Sometimes she pictured herself as a rock in the middle of a stream, people flowing around her as if she weren’t there to begin with. 

Her saving grace was her herbalism. She excelled in the alchemical sciences, to her instructor’s delight, though in truth it was hard to say; Ines took delight in very little beyond her own cultivation, but she certainly scowled less when Nethalia presented her with her work. She graduated her to the advanced class quickly and Nethalia lived for the challenge. Most potions were a recipe, but many were a puzzle, she spent a great deal of time making small tweaks here and there. Her magic took to the plants like nothing else, she could manipulate them to her will, though it was subtler than other schools. 

It made sense, she passed many an afternoon curled up in the bows of the Vhenadahl, watching the people of the Alienage scurry about their lives. She and the other children would often climb it, daring the others higher and higher until you could almost see over the walls into the city. There was magic in the tree, the elders would say. Her mother told her it represented them, ancient roots stretched deep into the earth, branches reaching skyward. She didn’t know the truth of it, but they left small offerings at the base of the tree for the family they left behind anyway. 

She longed to feel the sun on her skin, and the wind through her hair. In truth she missed it as much as she missed her family. The garden’s had been barred to her, and any other mages not given special permission to work them. A mage escaped months ago over the garden walls and presumably across the lake, as his body had yet to wash up. She thought she might be able to persuade Ines to vouch for her. The gardens did not belong to her, but Ines was the driving force behind it’s upkeep, and little happened there without her say so. 

She lifted her eyes from the sketch in her journal and nearly lept out of her skin. Large brown eyes stared unblinkingly across the table from her. The warm firelight of the study room made them look almost black. Her bunkmate, Soloma as she learned, sat on the old chair across from her. The chair was facing the wrong way, so she was straddling the back, a feat all its own in her robes, resting her arms across the top. Jowan approached pulling a chair up beside Soloma, facing the correct way at least. The two were often attached at the hip, save for their punishment work duties, and there were many, as the Amell girl had a penchant for causing trouble. 

“I didn’t see you there.” Nethalia said carefully folding her journal closed. It was her record of all the plants and their properties that she’d learned so far, complete with clumsy illustrations. As several dozen hours of work had gone into it she she was well motivated to protect it in Soloma’s presence. 

“I’ve heard a great deal about you.” Soloma chirped, her eyes darting to Jowan, who was suddenly very interested in the wood grain of the table. She blew a few strands of her short red hair out her face. “Not sure I get all the fuss.” 

Nethalia ignored the latter comment, “What have you heard?” 

“I know you’re s’pose to be some big scary apostate. Hiding out in the city, killing a man right under the noses of a few dozen templars.” Nethalia snorted at that. “You made all the men go stupid for a week.” She gave Nethalia a quick once over, her eyes lingering on her face. “There might be something to that one.” 

Heat rose in Nethalia’s face and she tugged on the end of one of her curls. “You’d think people would have better things to do.”

“Not likely. The whats, whos, wheres, and whys are all we have for entertainment round here.” She answered. 

“Unless you want to take one of Anissa’s painting classes.” Jowan added. He and his companion both shuddered. 

“It’s good for you too, like know which templars to avoid.” Soloma urged. Nethalia had an idea already, she and Jowan shared a glance. “Look.” She said nodding her head toward the two doorways, and the templars just beside them. “That one on the right is Thea. She’s a hardass, but she never does anything to you you don’t deserve. The other one is Cullen, he’s probably the nicest but never breaks any rules. He’s almost as bad as Greagoir.”

She recognised the name of the latter and turned to look. He was the one that helped her find her way back on her first day. She eyed the slit in the helmet and turned back to Soloma. “How can you tell which one it is?” 

“Well Thea’s easy, she’s the shortest. And Cullen is the newest, see how is armor all shiny?” 

“That’s probably because he spends all night polishing it.” Jowan said and Soloma giggled. 

“He’s probably polishing more than his armor.” Soloma said, cackling. 

“You know everyone in the tower? Even the templars?” Nethalia asked, steering the conversation away from the only templar to show her kindness since her arrival. Laughing at his expense felt like a betrayal, however trivial. 

“Of course I do.” She turned to face the rest of the room. “He fancies swords over sheaths, she fancies both. Ana was pregnant a few months ago, she never did say who the father was but the templars dropped it when she miscarried. Alondra is in love with Eadric, but he’s too in love with his books to notice. Keilli and Godwin are shagging. So much for piety right?” 

“How do they manage that?” Nethalia asked, she never would have suspected Keilli of anything so base. She spent half the day in the Chantry for mercy’s sake. 

“There’s lots of nooks and crannies to tend to your nooks and crannies. You just have to be fast before the templars notice.” Soloma grinned at Nethalia. 

Nethalia blushed. She wasn’t naive, but she’d been investigating some of the more hidden parts of the tower thus far, for entirely different reasons. She’d mercifully avoided stumbling across any illicit activities. 

“You get a head for it eventually, when you’ve been here long enough.” Soloma said. “The people knowing, not the nooks and crannies, unless that’s your thing.” 

Jowan nodded in agreement. “He’s a prat, so is he, he’s probably a royal prat. Never learned to wipe his own ass.” 

Nethalia laughed despite herself, she’d butted heads with the royal prat in question during one of her classes. He turned to glare at them and she choked down her giggles. It was the lightest her heart had felt in weeks. She smiled at the pair across from her and she couldn’t fight the smile that broke out across her face. For the first time she thought that she  _ could _ be happy in the tower. If she stayed. 

*~*~*~*~*

Cullen shifted and rolled his shoulders from his position against the wall. He scanned the room and settled his eyes on a set of curls at one of the far tables near the opposite wall, or rather the woman beneath it. His helmet obscured his gaze from onlookers so he felt at ease fixing his eyes upon her without scrutiny. He liked watching her, she had a set of feature that drew the eyes willingly or not, but in truth it was because he wanted to know more about her. 

He had not spoken to her since the first night, he could not find a reason to, but she intrigued him. There were very few foreigners in his village growing up, and none like her. She smiled easily, at most everyone that crossed her path, though rarely at anyone in a suit of armor. He saw her encouraging the children in her classes, exclamining with genuine excitement when one of them was able to correctly guess a flower’s uses or levitated a book from a table. She was kind. 

There were some moments however, when she was sat in a windowsill, cheek pressed against the glass, fingers tracing each pane, that he saw a different expression creep across her face. It was such a profound sadness his own chest heart twinged in answer. He wondered if she was dreaming about a city far past the walls of the tower, or perhaps even a village not unlike his own even further beyond Ferelden borders. Inevitably he’d find himself reading his letters from home, committed to writing back more often. 

That sadness was nowhere to be seen now, as she sat across from the tower’s most notorious pair of trouble makers. Soloma grinned impishly at her, and Cullen swore he could hear his name, though it was impossible to be sure at this distance. Jowan was putting on quite the show for her, making wide gestures and pointing openly. He felt a small pang of jealousy when Nethalia’s face lit up. Her smile was its own kind of magic, he felt a jolt go through him when for a moment her bright eyes flashed his way. 

He glanced at Thea to see if she was affected the same way but she was busy watching the other side of the room. Something was happening, he’d allowed himself to be distracted by her. A mage, Nathan, scrambled up from the floor red faced and seething. He brushed dirt from his robes and Cullen saw his chair was much further from the table than it was moments ago. Soloma, the culprit no doubt, howled with laughter and Nethalia clamped a hand over her mouth. Whether in shock or to hide her laughter was unclear. Nanthan interpreted it as the latter.

“Don’t forget your place knife ear! Being in the same room does not make us equals.” He snarled. 

Soloma jumped to her feet as did an elven apprentice at the same table. He felt it before saw it, the swell of magic in the air. A fireball bloomed in Soloma’s hand in an instant and it was snuffed out just as quickly as Cullen and Thea banished the magic from the room. Thea darted in and grabbed Soloma and pulled her hands behind her back. She complied immediately but she spat in Nathan’s direction as she was dragged out. Cullen rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword and scanned the room to see if anyone else was a danger. Nathan's hands were raised in the air and his face was pale, like many of the other mages. 

Nethalia staggered in the center of the room, all color drained from her face. Jowan spoke to her but here eyes were unfocused. He knew some mages felt the effects of the magic suppression worse than others but once accustomed to it the effects were little more than uncomfortable. She had spent her whole life away from templars to this point. He walked over to her. 

“Are you alright?” He asked. Jowan tensed as he approached but to his credit he did not back away. 

She focused her eyes on him and frowned. She nodded, then swayed, then pitched backwards. Both he and Jowan made a grab for her but it did not stop her head from connecting with the edge of a table. Cullen pushed Jowan off and lifted her into his arms. Blood dripped from her hair onto his boots. He hefted her up so her head no longer hung over his arm and rested against his breastplate. “None of you move!” He called to the room and jogged to the door. 

Philippe and Thronn met him at the door at Thea’s behest. “Watch them, I need to get her to the infirmary.” 

Thronn nodded and Cullen didn’t check to see if Philippe would do as he was bid. The dark smear on his armor had him worried so he hurried to the infirmary. She was an easy burden to carry down several sets of stairs, small and lithe, though not quite as light as he expected. 

“What happened?” Wynne turned to ask as he entered the infirmary. He wondered if she smelled the blood, or if she could sense and injured person as they approached. It was probably the blood, the smell made his own stomach roil in revolt. 

He set her down in an empty cot, and Wynne drew near. “She fainted, I think. When we dispelled the room.” 

Wynne pursed her lips and turned Nethalia’s head. “It looks worse than it is.” She said to him, “Head wounds are like that. Still, I’ll need to make sure there’s nothing internal.” Blue light emanated from her fingertips as she prodded. “Senna bring me that box over there.” 

The tranquil woman brought a small box of instruments and held them out to her. Wynne selected a small set of shears and Cullen grimaced. “Was that all?” Wynne asked pointedly.

“No.” Cullen said and nodded to her, though she hadn’t bothered to look up from her work to dismiss him. He’d lingered far past his usefulness. 

  
  


*~*~*~*~*

Nethalia had the distinct feeling that she was falling. The shock jolted her out of sleep and her eyes snapped open in turn. There was a man standing over her, he stepped back, startled. She jumped out of bed and looked around, she swayed slightly and the man grabbed her by the arm to steady her. It was Cullen, but he was not in his armor, she had not recognised him without it. She still only came up to his shoulders, but he was far less imposing now. He looked human, and for the first time she realised he was handsome. In a charming farmboy kind of way, but handsome nonetheless. His eyes were hazel, more gold than brown, banded with a ring of deep green. 

She did not recognise the room she was in, it was mostly dark save for a few candles lit in the corners. The sconces were dark, which meant it was sometime after curfew. There were beds all around her and a placid looking tranquil woman sweeping on the other side of the room. She turned to Cullen, searching his face for ill intent.

“I- er. Wynne just stepped out for a moment.” He mumbled quickly. 

Wynne was the resident master healer. So she was in the infirmary, she’d had no cause to visit since her arrival. “Why am I here?” She asked. Her head throbbed in answer. 

He rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand, “In the tower or..?” He trailed off. 

“I know that.” She snapped, then softened her tone, “I mean what happened?” 

“Oh.” He said, his arm dropped from his neck. “Your friend tried to set someone on fire, we had to dispel the room. I’m told it hits some harder than others. You fainted.” He said. Guilt pervaded his features. “You hit your head when you fell.” he added. It rushed back to her suddenly, the memories slamming into her mind leaving a faint throbbing where her head made contact with something hard.

Her hand went up to touch her the back of it, she couldn’t feel anything there besides a few shorn strands of hair, Wynne was an expert after all. Cullen was watching her face closely, she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes while standing this close to him. Stubble dotted his jaw and there were faint lines across his cheek from his pillow. “What does it feel like? Without your magic?” He asked, his face earnest. 

“Like all the air has been pulled from your lungs and you can’t catch your breath, or..” She struggled to name the right feeling. It was monumentally worse than when she was brought to the tower. That was a slow sustained fatigue, meant to discourage. Whatever Cullen had done was different. “Like I suddenly lost my sight, or my arm. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until it was gone.” She finished. It was like he’d ripped a piece of her out. 

He released her arm suddenly, as though he only remembered he was still holding her that moment. He stepped back with an unreadable expression. “I-” 

Wynne stepped into the room and Nethalia cursed the woman for Cullen fled like a started bird. “I should be on my way.” He said and nodded in greeting to Wynne as he passed her. She would not hear what he thought of what she said now. A part of her was afraid it might get her in trouble, was she not supposed to talk about that with a templar? 

Wynne watched his retreat before fixing Nethalia with a calculating stare. “Are you allright?” She asked. 

“Of course.” Nethalia answered quickly, then winced. “I think he only meant to check on me.”  _ Nothing else, _ she didn’t add aloud. She sat down on the edge of the cot as the throbbing in her head increased. 

Wynne tucked her robe underneath her as she sat on the stool beside the bed. “That was the third time he came to check on you today.” Wynne pulled a stoppered bottle out from a box at her feet. Unlike Soloma’s contraband spirits, this looked like a simple healing draught. “He’s a sweet boy.” Nethalia nodded and twisted a strand of her hair around her finger. “Sometimes I think even he forgets he’s a templar, that it is his duty to cut any of us down should we turn abomination.” She said all this matter-of-factly, but Nethalia was not blind to the way the older woman watched her. 

Her words were sobering, no doubt Wynne’s intent. Still, as she lay there that night she found herself thinking about him. Even Soloma thought him kind, but she did not differentiate him from the other templars, and at the end of the day was he not one of the many obstacles between her and seeing her family again? She knew the answer should be yes, but she could not fully resign herself to that. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_ Dear Nethalia, _

_ It is good to hear from you after so long. After what happened, I feared the worst. My father is well, thank you for asking. Too well actually. He finally managed to secure a match for me from the Highever Alienage and make an honest woman out of me. Ha! Even he will never manage that, but this does means in only a few months I will be married. Soris as well. I know he always loved you, your feelings were unclear but I always thought you would have made a good cousin.  _

_ I am sure you are surprised to find me going along with this plan so easily. Well my dear friend, I have little choice. I have lost my position in the Cousland estate, as I’m sure your mother has told you. I thought briefly about joining the Dalish like my mother, but I fear what may befall my father if I leave him alone. From the bottom of my heart, I want you to know that none of this is your fault, but things have been worse here with the humans since you left.  _

_ Two days before my writing this some humans took it upon themselves to raid the alienage. Soris, Nelli, a few others and myself met them at the gates. There were not many, so they turned tail at the sight of so many knife ears armed to the teeth. I found myself wishing that they had tried, the world would be better with a few less entitled shem, but I know what that would bring upon the rest of us, and above all else I just want to keep everyone safe. I fear they may return with more men, but we will be waiting for them.  _

_ We miss you every day. I hope you are well when this letter finds you.  _

_ Your Friend,  _

_ Aela Tabris _

*~*~*~*~*

Aela’s letter was tucked away in the chest in her quarters but the words kept running through her mind as she bathed. She sunk into the water until her chin just barely kissed the surface. There were a few screens granting the bathing tubs, but she could still see whomever was in the tub opposite her; Soloma, who was uncharacteristically quiet. It was still the closest thing to privacy she was afforded in the tower, and it only happened once a fortnight. It was a luxury to bath in a full tub as opposed to washing with a rag and pot of water, she knew this. She still wished she could just fetch her own water and bathe whenever she wished instead of waiting on the tranquil to haul up enough water to fill the tubs. 

Aela said it was never clear how she felt about Soris, and it was unclear to Nethalia as well. She loved him dearly as a friend. Everyone knew the three of them, occasionally four when Shianni found the time, were inseparable. Soris was her first friend in Ferelden, he didn’t mind that she spoke oddly. He was her first kiss, but she never thought of his as a lover, save for some clumsy fumbling in the alley behind her house, but they never did more than that. She supposed he would one day be her first everything and she would one day marry him. 

Each day would pass without her now. Their lives would change, they would get married, have children, probably move away in search of adventure in Aela’s case, and she would still be here. Before long there would be no more room for her in their lives, the hole she left filled up by some woman from Highever, all the while her emptiness grew every day without them. One day they’d ask “Whatever happened to Faraj and Yuemi’s girl? The older one?” and someone else would answer “Got carted off by the templars, that one.” They’d answer “What a pity.” or “Good riddance.” and that would be it. All the legacy she had left outside the tower. Just a footnote in other people’s lives. 

“Are you alright there?” Soloma asked. She scooted forward in the tub splashing water on the floor. Steam still rose from her tub, and Nethalia suspected she was using her magic to warm it. Nethalia’s water had gone tepid in the time she spent contemplating instead of washing. 

“Just thinking about home.” She answered honestly. 

“Ah.” Soloma sighed. She slumped down until the water covered her breasts and rested her chin on the edge of the tub. “I don’t remember my home.”

“How old were you when you were brought here?” 

“Four I think. They’re not completely sure, they found me in the husk of a burnt up barn. The couple running the farm was the ones that called the templars.” Soloma stated it easily, but here eyes dropped to the water on the floor. 

“So young?” Nethalia asked. Her heart jump as the thought of such a child being torn from her family. 

“The youngest, so I’m told.” Soloma gave a mirthless smile.

“And your family? They don’t write you?” Nethalia never saw Soloma in the hall when the mail was delivered, but she never thought anything of it until now. 

“None I know of. Nobody claimed me when the templars came. I used to imagine I was a long lost princess when I was little, and one day they’d come and take me from the tower to rule my kingdom.” Soloma saw Nethalia’s face and smiled wryly, “It’s stupid. More than likely I was ditched the moment my magic showed itself. Besides, the tower is my home. I wouldn’t leave it even if they let me.” 

Nethalia’s heart ached for the little girl who’s own family thought her so monstrous they left her for dead. It ached for the woman before her that thought there was no place for her in the world beyond these walls. 

“You mean your reign of terror ends at the edge of the island? If I’d known that I would have run off ages ago!” Nethalia grinned. Soloma cackled and splashed water at her, the majority of it landing on the floor. They splashed back and forth until Keilli yelled at them to stop making a mess. Which sobered them slightly. 

Nethalia had people who missed her, she felt guilty for ever thinking her mother or father could forget about her. Even her little sister, who was just learning to read and write, still penned a few crooked lines at the bottom of their letters. She heaved a sigh and pulled herself from the tub, stepping carefully around all the water on the floor and went to dress herself for the day. 

*~*~*~*~*

It was an unseasonably warm day that followed the storm that flooded the garden. The same day that Cullen was switched from the night shift to the day shift in that exact garden. He spent only about an hour in the sun before taking his helmet off and casting it aside, sweat trickling down from his hairline. Humidity always made his hair worse and he was certain the helmet did it no favors. He tried to pat it back into place, but he gave up shortly when his gauntlets caught and pulled a few strands loose. 

He spied movement from the door and cocked his head from the column he was leaning on to get a better look. Nethalia stepped out into the sun, she lifted her hand to shield her eyes. The door shut behind her and she kicked off her shoes, leaving them on the stone walkway encircling the garden. She stepped into the grass lowering her hand from her face. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, her arms stretched out at her sides. The light cast a golden halo around her curls, like a crown of sunshine. Her skin glowed, as if lit from within. She laughed once, a free flying thing, and spun, her robes and hair following suit.

He turned away. It was a private moment, and he wasn’t sure she’d like him watching from the shadows. He moves a few paces over where she would be obscured by a tree. Here he had a clear line of sight to the wall that bordered the garden. On the other side of the wall was the templars training yard, but it was silent now. If anyone was on the other side of the wall, they were enjoying the day. Beyond that lay the lake, and escape for one particularly determined mage. At one point there was no wall separating the two areas, instead it was one large courtyard. Perhaps a training yard when Kinloch hold was used as a fort. 

The garden was a notoriously boring assignment since Knight Commander Greagoir restricted access. Most of the people moving about it were tranquil, tending the garden and harvesting ingredients for the tower. Occasionally the odd mage or apprentice was granted entry. Usually it was just Ines bossing the tranquil around. 

He watched one young man, his hair was grown out from the close crop tranquil usually sported. The sunburst brand was stark against his pale skin. Cullen has not been posted at the tower when he was made tranquil, but he was told there was a bit of an uproar from his lover. She tried to cast on the templars and they took him and she was struck down. It was no small mercy then, that he no longer felt anything for his slain love. Cullen winced, he wished tranquility was not necessary, but he could think of nothing else to stop a mage not in control of their own magic and the evil it attracted, short of killing them, and he despised that idea even more. He did not share some of his peers enthusiasm for the rite of tranquility and slain mages, and it had earned him some ire from a few among those at the tower. 

Knight Commander Greagoir used it as an example to discourage attachments to their charges, and to discourage the mages from forming too close an attachment to each other. Better to keep each other at arms length than to lose someone dear to a templars sword or the Harrowing. Or so they were told. Cullen always cared too much, even as a child. He became a templar to  _ help _ people.

Eventually the heat from the sun, and his exhaustion from the schedule change had him battling with his heavy eyelids. He looked for anything to keep his mind occupied and found Nethalia crouched along the stone path a few paces beyond where he stood before. She was picking something from the path and moving it into the grass at her feet. He couldn’t make out what exactly it was, but her brows were furrowed in concentration. He thought her lips might be moving too, but he was too far away to hear. 

His training told him he should watch her more closely, it could be that she was preparing a spell to overpower him and make a run for the wall. When he looked down at the path by his boots he saw the worms. They must have come up onto the walkway to avoid drowning and could not get back into the grass after the sun came up to dry them. Many were already dead, but a few wiggled feebly. He watched her for a time before he drifted off. 

*~*~*~*~*

Nethalia worked her way up the path slowly. Tossing any worm still alive back into the grass singing a spell to them. It was half healing and half persuasion, like the magic she used to hold the beetle in place during her assessment. Micah held it with magic, the startled beetle flailing its little legs rapidly when it found suddenly that it could not move. She convince it to stay still, pushed the thought onto it as though it was what the beetle wanted as well. It did not move again until she told it to fly away. The mages grading her did not know what to think of that. 

She found Eadric later, one of the few other elven mages, and asked him if it was perhaps only a magic elves possessed. To her disappointment he told her it was an old magic uncommon in circle mages, but there were many apostates thought to be able to control animals with magic. She wondered if all the times she passed the stray dogs in the alienage without trouble was her using magic without her knowledge. Her mother insisted the animals they kept in Rivain always loved her. 

She told the worms to dig deep and stay off the stone unless absolutely necessary. She didn’t receive and answer, but they all followed her instructions after she breathed a little life into them. Worms were good for the plants, she wasn’t sure if they would be able to get anymore if they all burned to death on the path. They were in little danger of that now, as the sun was mostly hidden behind heavy grey clouds. 

There was a slight chill on the air and she wondered if she might be able to feel the rain and sun on her skin in one day. Soloma told her the templars would make her go in if it started raining, they thought the rain would give a mage cover to escape without notice. 

She glanced at Cullen, who dozed against the wall a few paces up the path. She was able to work without disturbing him, it didn’t harm anyone to let him sleep. She wouldn’t escape today, under his watch. Besides, the garden and the walls beyond were watched for exactly such an endeavor. She stood to stretch her stiff legs, and wandered over to him. She felt a touch of moisture on her face. Tiny spots of water appeared on her shoulders and she stepped under the overhang and closer to Cullen by instinct. 

The armor made him look bigger, but now she knew his vast shoulders were owed only to his parents, not the pauldrons. His head lolled slightly to one side, resting on his own shoulder. His lips were fuller han she’d first noticed, but she had never been so close to him before. 

She couldn’t make out the movement of his chest beneath his armor, but she could hear him breathing, rather loudly. A clap of thunder startled them both and it cut off suddenly. Cullen blinked blearily at her and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. 

“Sorry.” She mumbled covering her smile with her hand, “It’s just, well, you were snoring.”

He cleared his throat and she flushed, she had no excuse for her very apparent looming. She stepped back a little, and tried not to look guilty. Cullen squinted at the rumbling sky above them. 

“We’ll have to go back inside.” He said, his voice raspy from sleep. He cleared his throat once more and looked at her. He made no move to go inside so she stayed in her place. “Why did you do that?” He asked, gesturing to the path they were both on. He didn’t sound angry, merely perplexed. “I mean, I’m not sure it’s going to make much of a difference.” 

“It made a difference to the worm.” She answered. It hadn’t really occurred to her  _ why _ . She could help them so she did. 

She brushed a stray curl back behind her ear and he stared at her with an unreadable expression. “I suppose it did.” He said finally. The sky opened with a sigh and rain started pouring down. 

The patter of raindrops against the earth filled the silence between them. He gestured towards the path to let her lead. She stepped out from the overhang into the rain, and took another step. The rain was not gentle, it pelted her through her clothes, plastering her hair to her brow. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the sensation of the water washing over her. For a moment she could almost believe she was back home, watching people scramble for cover under the roof of a tavern or market stall. She exhaled slowly and let the tension leave her body. She felt like weeping, out of joy or sorrow she did not know. 

She turned to Cullen and said, “Alright.” He hesitated for a breath then stepped off the path after her, letting the rain wash over him as well. 

They walked in silence to the door, and Nethalia prayed he could not see the tears on her cheeks. Once inside after getting a stern reprimand from the stationed templar Nethalia set about squeezing the water from her hair. She met Cullen’s eyes and gave a small private smile just for him. A thank you. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Nethalia wove through the crowd of people and ducked through the servant door to the kitchens. She set her empty platter down on the long table by the others and slumped into a chair by the fire. With dinner finished most of the guests would be moving to the drawing room, she would have brief respite before the Teryna called for desert. She would be glad when the family departed for their own holding, the estate had been a bit overcrowded the last few weeks. 

The Couslands spent a few weeks out of every winter in Denerim, but the rest of the year the estate lay empty save for the staff required to run it. If the housekeeper did not ask her to stay on she’d have to find work elsewhere. She was too old to be a courier, perhaps she’d join her mother as a laundress. The door swung open and thumped against the wall. The cook looked up from her work and fixed her friend with a scathing look. 

Aela mumbled an apology and turned to Nethalia. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you all over.” She grabbed her by the hand and pulled her from the chair. 

Nethalia relented with a groan. “Where are we going?” 

“I need your help clearing the table.” Aela said quickly pulling her through the door and closing it behind them. 

“Where are we really going?” Nethalia asked as soon as they were out of earshot. Aela pulled her past the dining room into a darkened hallway. 

“Remember those friends I told you about?” Aela whispered. 

“Jenny something or other.” Nethalia answered, she frowned, “What does that have to do with us?” 

“They left a message for me in the east wing, come on.” She answered pulling her along the hall. 

The guest wing was empty, at present, but if anyone decided to turn in early they would be in trouble. Aela likely had an excuse should they get caught skulking about, but whether it was a _good one_ or not was Nethalia’s concern. They entered one of the smaller guest chambers. A candle burned low in the corner of the room. 

“You check this side, I’ll check the desk.” Aela commanded. “It’s s’posed to be instructions.” 

Nethalia blew a loose curl from her face and sighed. She did not understand Alea’s fascination with those people. They supposedly set out to help the little people, but she’d seen them do little more than hide cryptic notes and stash the odd potion or two. Most of it seemed like nonsense to Nethlia but Alea swore they were using these things to fight the people in power. Nethalia was happy to humor her dear friend so long as it kept her out of worse trouble, and other people’s pockets. Though she seriously doubted it had helped curb the latter.

She opened the wardrobe. There were a few things neatly folded, mens clothes by the looks. Not as nearly as nice as his Lordship’s, but nicer than anything she owned. She slipped her hands into the folds of the clothes, careful not to disturb them. 

She closed it carefully and turned towards the bed. Alea was rifling through the other side of the room furiously, cursing under her breath. Nethalia sat on the edge of the bed, she almost moaned aloud. Every muscle in her body begged her to lay back, but she dare not rumple the bedding. She glanced over to her friend in the corner. Her long black hair and deep red dress made her hard to spot in the low light. 

Nethalia jumped to her feet when the door swung open. A man stumbled a few steps into the room and stopped short when he saw her. “What’re you doing here?” he asked. It was one of the Couslands guests, a knight. She couldn’t recall his name. He seemed to have trouble focusing on her as his head bobbed absurdly. 

“Just freshening the linens, Ser.” She answered quickly and smoothed the spot she’d been sitting. 

He closed the door and moved closer to her. He did not seem to notice Aela, frozen on the other side of the room. Perhaps he had not seen her yet. Nethalia kept her eyes forward, trying to buy her friend time to inch towards the door. 

“You’re a pretty one.” He raised his hand and brushed his finger across her cheek. His breath reeked of wine, she’d seen him finish almost two bottles to himself at dinner. He was the one the other girls warned them about, and here they were in his room no less. She ducked under his arm and put him between her and the bed.

He grabbed her by the arm roughly and she yelped. He twisted her around pushing her back towards the bed. Her heart hammered in her chest and she felt her palms tingling. Magic rising in response to her fear. Now was not the time to lose control, if she slipped he would kill her. He still might, she thought as she tried to wrench her wrist free from his grasp. He tightened his hold and pulled her closer. “This will only take a minute.” He gritted out. 

“Let her go!” Aela shouted, lunging out from the dark. 

He turned just in time to see the pot she brought down on his head. It shattered on his head and he stumbled forward releasing Nethalia, soil and leaves scattering on the floor as he went. She scrambled up on the bed and scooted backwards. He made a grab for Aela and the pair went tumbling to the ground. Aela grunted and she heard the sound of blows landing. She edged forwards and saw that he was on top of Aela now, squeezing the life out of her. 

Nethalia dropped off the bed dragging the blankets with her as it caught on her shoes. She wrapped both her hands around his bicep and pulled with all her strength. He let go of Aela’s neck for a moment to shove her into the wardrobe. The doors rattled as she slid down it. Tears streamed down Aela’s red face. Blood dripped from a gash on the man’s face onto her open mouth. Nethalia could hear her own breath coming out in uneven gasps. His face was a twisted mask of rage. He was going to kill Aela, and they’d throw them both into the midden heap. 

The discarded plant started writing beside him. Nethalia felt her magic rise and pour out of her, flowing freely and unbidden from her fingertips. The roots started to grow rapidly, large twisting and crawling unnaturally. They slipped around his hands forcing them back. Alea’s eyes flew wide like she could not trust her sight. She scrambled out from under him as the vines wrapped their way around his body, large thorns split his skin and clothing and he began yelling. Aela watched wide eyed as the roots wrapped around him like a snake and squeezed. She felt his body straining against the monstrous plant as if they were made of her own flesh and blood. 

Footsteps pounded in the hall and the door flew open. “What’s going on here?” A man’s voice demanded. He stopped, horror dawning on his face as he took in the scene before him. 

Her control snapped and the roots fell lifelessly to the floor. Ser Gilmore, darted forwards to his brother in arms on the floor. Alea did not waste the moment. She leapt to her feet and grabbed Nethalia by the arm.

“Come on!” She urged. Her voice rough and cracked from the damage he’d done to her. They fled down the hall almost barreling into the Teryn’s daughter, Melisande. They paused for a brief moment and Nethalia saw the woman’s cold blue eyes taking in the scene before her. Aela’s throat was already raw, and blood was smeared across her lips, her eyes red and demonic from the popped blood vessels. 

“Stop them!” Ser Gilmore’s voice echoed down the hall. 

If she knew what he tried to do, would she help them? She started, “He tried to ra-” 

Aela tugged her forcefully, not allowing them the chance to find out. They darted down a servants passage and fled through the kitchen into the night. 

*~*~*~*~*

Cullen leaned against the stone wall of the garden and fixed his eyes upon the curly hair apprentice that had been occupying a large portion of his mind as of late. He read the report of her being apprehended in Denerim. He couldn’t help stay the curiosity that burbled over. She stood accused of stealing from a Knight and attacking him in his own quarter when he discovered the crime. The Knight alleged she had attempted to strangle him with vines but she fled when discovered by another Knight. She was pardoned from Aenor by the Teyrn Cousland of the estate, as there we some doubts about her motive, but as it stood she had been branded a risk and would be under close watch until her harrowing. He could not reconcile the gentle kind woman before him humming to her flowers with the dangerous apostate in the report, though she had avoided detection for some time before Templars caught wind of her. That alone required quite a bit of cunning. 

Nethalia crouched in the soil between elf root plants, the tallest of the leaves grazing and plucking at her hair. She shuffled her hands around the base of the plant and began muttering. Cullen stepped forward hand on his hilt as the plant began to shift of its own accord. The leaves grew wide and dark and the stem stretched upward until until it stilled. Nethalia stood and dusted her palms on her skirt leaving brown smudges amongst the green. She turned to him, her eyes flitting to his hand on his sword. Cullen dropped it guiltily. 

“How did you do that?” He asked, partly out of genuine curiosity, and partly to chase the hurt look from her face. 

She shuffled closer to him and glanced around, her shoes scraping over the brick pavement. “Are you asking because you want to know,” Her voice was gentle, as though speaking to a spooked animal. “ Or because you think I might be a danger to you?” 

“Sorry.” He said, his face reddening. 

“I can show you, if you like.” A small smile crept onto her face.

"Okay.” He said before thinking. She gestured for him to follow her closer to the plants and Cullen assured himself he could easily dispel any untoward magic flung his way. She crouched beside a flower bush and he crouched down facing her, leaves and blooms swaying gently between them.

“Here.” She said. She reached for him and slowly pried the gauntlet off his right hand, her eyes steady on his face watching his expression. She slipped her small brown hands around his and guided them until the cupped a bud on the bush. Cullen assured himself understanding her magic would give him a better chance to recognize danger, but he could not bring himself to fear anything beside the stirring in his stomach at her touch. 

She closed her eyes and started mumbling words, her eyes fluttering below dark lashes. Cullen spied sharp canines tucked behind her parted lips. She had a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks, brought out by her time in the garden. Magic surged in the air and he felt the lyrium in his hands react to it's pull. For a moment it felt like water, flowing from her hands _through_ his, just the faintest impression of movement. 

Cullen tore his eyes from her face as the bud stirred in his hand. Thick velvety petals spiraled outwards from the center of the flower into a full heady bloom. The fragrance invading his senses as the white petal tickled the palm of his hand. He was acutely aware that Nethalia was watching his reaction closely, and he could not keep the awe from his face. She flushed and smiled, and Cullen was suddenly aware that the scent came from her, her face only a few hand’s width away from his. 

“Apprentice! Is there a reason you’re neglecting my kingsblade for elfroot I’ve already tended?” Ines’ shrill voice called out from elsewhere in the garden. 

They broke apart abruptly and Nethalia gave him a sheepish smile. She plucked the bloom from the bush stepping closely to tuck it into his palm. “A reminder that not all magic is ugly and violent.” 

She turned swiftly and disappeared into the garden in pursuit of her Senior’s precious kingsblade. Cullen looked down at the bloom in his hand, a though looming at the back of his mind he was not ready to consider. 

  
*~*~*~*~*

Nethalia sighed and put the book back on the shelf above her. She’d taken to exploring the tower, scouring every dark corner for some secret path or forgotten room she’d missed on her first once over. She found a locked door tucked behind of the bookcases on the third floor and, she wondered if it might be a forgotten servants’ passage. There was just enough room behind the bookcase for her squeeze in and examine the lock. It was old and rusted, and given the right pressure she thought she might be able to break it. If it were an old passage, it was not necessarily an assurance of her escape, at the very least it might help her move through the tower undetected. 

The book she’d just read was an account of the Keep when it housed soldiers instead of mages. She’d seen no mention of the servant’s passages, but she did find a description of the courtyard. The author described it as sprawling, so either he had not come across many courtyards in his day, or more than just open land was behind the wall in the garden. 

She noticed the brick was different than the stone that made up the tower walls. She toyed with the idea of asking Cullen about it, but she had to find a way to ask without alerting him, many templars already looked at her with suspicion. 

There was a blue book on a shelf above her, the spine was creased in several places and the leather worn down almost completely on the edges. It looked promising, the only problem was it just beyond her grasp. She glanced around to see the only ladder in her section occupied by an Enchanter. There was little chance of finding a ladder elsewhere, and most of the chairs around the tables were occupied as well. 

The library was even more crowded than usual. The tower was a flutter with the news of the blight. It wasn’t confirmed of course, but there was talk of the King himself taking an army to meet the horde gathering in the south. It had a great many of the mages seeking something to occupy their minds while they waited for news. Her family was too far north for any real concern, but she’d heard from her mother earlier in the week. They were busy with preparations for the weddings. 

She stepped her foot lightly onto a shelf in front of her, testing it's strength against her weight. It creaked as she shifted onto it grabbing at the lip of another shelf near her chest. She stretched up on the tips of her toes, her fingers straining, she could just brush the bottom of the book but she could not get a grip on it. Light shifted across her vision and she started, her toe slipping from the shelf. Her breath caught in her throat as she fell against hard metal. Strong hands gripped her under her armpits settling her on the ground with ease. 

Nethalia stood as still as a rabbit, perched on the balls of her feet ready to bolt. “Careful.” He grunted stepping back from her. A sigh escaped her and the tension left her shoulders as she recognised the gentle admonishment. She turned to him and peered into his helmet, his strange golden brown eyes peered back at her, crinkling in the outer corners. He tugged the helmet off, his curly hair flattened by the weight of it. 

“Hello.” She said, smiling back. She felt eyes on her, so she kept her tone light. “I haven’t seen you around the tower in a few days.” 

In truth she’d missed him. She’d grown used to him watching over her in the garden. She thought perhaps he’d been avoiding her, the way her looked at her in the garden that day… it was different, it worried her. 

“Yes, I took a leave to visit my family.” He answered. “Are you well?” He asked quickly. He likely did not want her to dwell on his family, or that he could leave and she could not. Of course Templars were allowed to leave. She’d overheard a few talking about the nights they’d go drinking at the Tavern back at the shore, she didn’t think they could go home though. 

Try as she might, she could not keep the news from souring her mood. “Yes.” She answered slowly. 

“I had a few days of leave I did not use when I was first assigned here.” He said, picking up on the shift, “Knight Captain Hadley allowed me to use them now.” 

“I’m sorry.” She said sheepishly, she knew she would do the same in his position. He waved off her apology and looked down at her, he wanted to keep talking to her. 

“It’s just-” She trailed off and heat flared in her face. “Nevermind, it’s silly.” 

“Is there’s something wrong?” He asked, “Perhaps I can help?” his voice was so earnest guilt bubbled in her chest and she could not bring herself to ask him about the locked door. His easy smile may turn to suspicion and she wasn’t ready to lose sight of it yet.

Instead she mentioned something she’d forgotten about in his absence. “My mother sent me a gift, she said so in her letter, only I never got it.” She’d given up on ever getting it back, but it still bothered her. 

“Some things are confiscated if we suspect them of being dangerous or inflammatory.” Cullen answered. 

Her ears burned with the triviality of her request. She nodded and tugged on one of her curls, she suspected as much. As little as the mages were allowed to have, Nethalia had the least. She had not been in the tower long enough to amass nearly as much clutter as Soloma or Jowan, and she had been barred from bringing anything with her save the clothing on her back. She wanted something, anything to remind her of home. 

“I can look into it for you,” He said after a moment. “If you’d like?” 

“Would you?” She asked, clasping her hands together in excitement. 

He nodded once and she beamed at him. He reached up to the book she had been after, he leaned closer to her. She didn’t move away, thought it caused him to bump his chest against her slightly. He didn’t seem to notice but she tugger her hair over her ears, which twitched at his proximity. She could smell his unusual elderflower and oakmoss scent as he pulled the book down and offered it to her.

“A bit dry isn’t it?” He gestured to her book. “‘A History of Orzammar: Paragons of the Blessed Age and Their Contributions to Mining’.” 

She suppressed a groan. Not at all what she was looking for. She thanked him and he returned to his post. She planned on sneaking it back onto the shelf when he left but it seemed he was only beginning his watch in the library. For his sake she tried to comb through the heavy tomb, but her head was aching so badly after an hour or so she feigned retiring to her quarters, dragging the blasted thing with her. 

  
  


*~*~*~*~*

Cullen rolled onto his back in his dark windowless chambers. His shift partner absent from the bed across from him. Normally the sound of Herbert snoring helped lull him to sleep, but he’d been moved back to a night shift to cover Emiele who was currently lying ill in the infirmary. His shift would start long before Herbert returned for the night. 

His family was overjoyed to see him, his mother cooked far too much food and he fell back into his old life easier than expected. Playing chess with Mia, teasing Rosalie and roughhousing with Bransen. His younger brother almost fully a man now. Mia had prodded him relentlessly about the tower and his life there. She was bored by the politics of it, but her eyes were alight when he used the words ‘friend’ and ‘she’ in the same sentence. He wasn’t sure they were quite friends, but he liked to think they could have been in different circumstances. 

A moment from earlier raced across his mind, and instead of counting sheep he was imagining the curly head of a particular elven mage. She was so focused she didn’t hear his approach. Her arm outstretched and fingers grasping at the edges of a shelf beyond her reach, her brows drawn in concentration. The memory of her slim body and generous rear came unbidden. Cullen sat up and shook his head trying to shake the thought loose. He hadn’t _meant_ to notice it. Her robes pulled tight over her back as she reached up. The curve of her rear emerging from the folds of the typically unflattering robes. 

Cullen flopped back onto his bed, pulling the lumpy pillow over his face before releasing a groan. Now he definitely wasn’t going to sleep. He tossed the pillow aside and lit the lantern on his nightstand. The white flower drooping in the glass beside it. He was frustrated, he’d been so tired the past few nights he hadn’t found time to ‘take care of himself” which explained his current preoccupation. 

Sex was forbidden among templars, a base and carnal pursuit that would only cloud their judgement and distract them from their duties. However, in the most awkward conversation to date, Cullen and the other apprenticed Templars were informed by an elderly Chantry Sister that they were in fact allowed to relieve themselves of “tension” as they saw fit. In fact, more than one superior had recommended the act to Cullen as a way to relax, though he’d never admit he’d followed suit. 

Shame burned his ears despite himself and he pulled a book from under his mattress. He had read the first few chapters before his visit home. It was about a Pirate captain and her crew of whores-turned-swashbucklers. He flipped to the point he last remembered. The captain had discovered an assassin in her crew an she had him tied to a chair. The scene was half interrogation, half seduction and Cullen felt his breeches grow tighter. He’d only picked up the book after seeing it among Nethalia’s things weeks prior. He never suspected she’d like _that_ kind of book.

“Oh maker.” He groaned aloud pushing his growing erection down. He stood suddenly fleeing from his wholly inappropriate thoughts, the book tossed haphazardly under his bed once more. The cool air in th common room helped to cut through the haze and already he felt his blood pressure returning to normal. He stalked over to a dresser and splashed icy water across his face. 

“Oi, Rutherford, you better be careful before you poke someone’s eyes out.” Herbert, his shift mate and Phillipe cackled at him across their game of wicked grace. Cullen gritted his teeth and tried not to feel embarrassed. After all, he’d walked in on Herbert in far more compromising positions, and there were few in the tower spared the sight of Phillipe’s pale arse at one point or another. 

“We were just talking about something you’d be interested in.” Phillipe said. He gestured to an open chair beside them. Cullen was not overly eager to join them, Herbert was fine but Cullen didn’t have the patience to sift through whatever foul thing Phillpe had to say today.

“See, we was debating which of the lovely apprentices we’d shag if we had to pick one.” Cullen took a step back to admonish them but Phillipe continued over his protest “I think that Amell would be a fun little tumble.” 

“I don’t think you’re her type.” Herbert chuckled as he made a lewd gesture mashing his fingers together. 

“I like a bit of fight in them.” Phillipe winked. 

“Ana is quite fit,” Herbert ventured. 

“She’s damaged goods.” Phillipe said dismissively emptying his cup. “You, on the other hand,” He said slamming down his cup looking over to Cullen. “I’ve a feeling you’ve got a taste for the exotic ones.” 

Herbert's smile drifted downward and he offered a lame chuckled glancing between Cullen’s tight fists and Phillipe’s piercing gaze. “What about that little knife ear with the hair, I bet she tastes even sweeter than she looks. That stuck up bitch probably wants it-”

“Enough.” Cullen gritted out, slamming his hands on the table hard enough to upset Herbert’s drink into his lap. He turned from Herbert’s bewildered face and Pihillipe’s smug grin and made for the door. 

He was halfway down the tower before his anger calmed and he realized he didn’t know where he was going. He had a half formed idea to go to the practice yard, but he was without his armor and sword. Instead he turned in the direction of Knight Captain Hadley’s office. He had worked himself up so much that when he forgot to knock and pulled open the door to find an empty room, he was at a loss. His fury rushed out of him and his shoulders sagged. The Captain was usually in his office in the evening, he’d likely just stepped out to use the pot. 

Cullen ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t have a plan, after all, the Captain would likely brush it off as a bit of boys talk and send him on his way. It’s not like Cullen hadn’t heard worse before. When Ana’s pregnancy was discovered many of the templars discussed who among the mages could have possibly melted the Ice Queen, or which acts in particular had resulted in her growing belly. Greagoire shut down any further discussion of the circumstances when a rumor started circulating that the father wore armor instead of robes.

It’s because they were discussing Nethalia, _his friend,_ that angered him where he’d turned a blind eye before. Hypocrite that he was. He was just about to leave when he spied the chest behind the Captain’s desk. Nethalia’s request came back to him. He may be too cowardly to defend her to Phillipe and Herbert properly, but he could at least see that her property was returned to her. 

It hadn’t occurred to him he had no idea what he was looking for until he was wrist deep in an assortment of letters and trinkets. Some clearly contraband, and a few less conspicuous items like a bunch of pine cones with the note ‘to remind you of home’ attached. A small trinket box with the name ‘Surana’ carved into the lid caught his eye as someone cleared their throat behind him. 

“Shopping from the confiscated goods Rutherford? I didn’t think you the type.” Knight Captain Hadley said flatly. 

Cullen whirled, tucking the small box in his hands. “Knight Captain Ser.” He greeted. 

The Knight Captain eyed Cullen’s clasped hands as he made his way around his desk before taking a seat. “To what do I owe this intrusion?”

“Ser,” Cullen started, the Captain may have overlooked his snooping, but disrespect was intolerable among Templar ranks. “I believe this may have been mistakenly confiscated from an apprentice.” He placed the small box onto the desk and slid it over for the Captain to look for himself. 

Hadley raised his brows, but he flipped open the lid to the box and pulled out a small bottle. He unstoppered it and raised the opening to his nose. He closed the bottle up before returning it to the box and closing it too. “It’s quite a bit of trouble you’ve gone to for perfume.” Hadley stated. Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, worried the Captain might ask him why. Instead he merely said, “Very well, you may return it. But don’t think I’ve forgotten you’re due in the Great Hall in a bit. Don’t be late.”

“Thank you, Ser.” Cullen smiled and made for the door before the captain could call him back. 

*~*~*~*~*  
  
  


Nethalia stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and squinted in the the waning candlelight. It was just about curfew, but she hit a snag in her most recent concoction. The lotus leaf she added to increase the half life seemed to render the balm’s effects useless, or at least minuscule. So now she was stuck with a long lasting Poultice of Nothing. Though it did give off a rather sweet scent, perhaps she could repurpose her failure?

“Ahem.” Someone coughed beside her and Nethalia turned to greet him. 

“Cullen!” She exclaimed with surprise, though her ear pricked with excitement. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He said quietly looking over her herbs and books splayed out. His hands were tucked behind his back and he seemed nervous as he eyed her powder blue journal. 

“Do you like it?’ She asked pulling the journal closer for him to see. He peered at her scribbled notes and drawings of herbs in the margins. Suddenly embarrassed by the mess she quickly flipped a few pages, “I’m trying to compile a list of apothecary uses for flowers, as well at their meanings. A lot of people dismiss them as just pretty but I think if we combined uses we could make potions that are fragrant and harmless when applied topically, but has a sedative affect when ingested or..” She trailed off realizing she was blabbering on to cover her nerves. 

Cullen pulled his eyes from the pages, “You’re a wonderful artist.”

Nethalia blushed at the flattery. 

“Truly” he added looking into her eyes. 

“What’s that?” She asked spying something in his hands, eager for the distraction. 

“Oh, right.” Cullen said presenting the box to her. He glanced at her face sheepishly. 

She grabbed it from him and opened it with trebling hands. She’d already forgotten her request to Cullen, she never expected him to actually follow through on it. She flung her arms around his neck startling them both. He stood upright pulling her toes off the ground. He was stiff, as her body pressed against his. She felt his fingertip graze across her back before she let go ans stepped back.

“Beg pardon, I forgot myself.” She said as a scorching heat crept up her neck and across her cheeks. She hoped her darker skin would conceal her flushed face. 

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and glanced behind her, Nethalia had indeed forgotten they were not alone in the practice room. “I erm, I’m happy to help.” He said. “I’ve got duties to attend to.” He gave a half bow before ducking out of the room like the fade itself was at his heels. 

Nethalia hugged the box to her chest and inhaled deeply. There was a faint smell of something foreign, Cullen perhaps, but mostly it smelled like home. The mornings she spent with her mother combing oil through her thick locks before her mother wound her hair into scalp wrenching braids. Small tears pricked at the corner of her eyes at the memory. 

She felt eyes on her and she met Ana’s gaze. “What?” Nethalia snapped. She didn’t like being watched, and she certainly didn’t like Ana intruding on her moment. 

Ana stood and gathered her things slowly. “He is a Templar, it is his duty to kill you should you step one single foot out of line. They relish in the opportunity to hurt our kind.”

No human had ever included her in ‘their kind’ before. Nethalia clutch the box to her chest. “Cullen’s not like them.” She said, sound far more childish than she intended.

“Maybe not,” Ana said stopping to look back at her in the doorway, “But he breaks bread with them, what does that make him then?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

A buzz of frantic activity took root in the tower as preparations were made for the mages to march south with the King’s army. The tranquil were working day and night mending robes, polishing staves, packing supplies into the carts that would whisk the Harrowed mages away to war. As such, the apprentices found themselves with a shortage of classes and a sudden increase in their work detail. Nethalia had spent the better part of the last three days hunched over her mortar and pestle to fill the King’s order of health potions, alongside the other alchemically gifted mages. She was one of the few apprentices among them, and her heart sung with pride every time she corked a new vial. 

Her fingers were stained green and her wrists ached even now as she pushed her oatmeal around, her spoon scraping the bottom of the wooden bowl. “I’m just grateful they’re only taking the Harrowed mages.” Melva, a nasally apprentice called from down the table. 

“Well of course, what good would you be?” Ana asked. A sneer on her face. Melva cowered into her bowl as her face reddened. 

“I wish I’d been Harrowed in time,” Soloma said, sucking on her spoon, “I think I’d like the chance to throw fireballs at someone who deserves it.”

“Some- _thing_.” Nethalia corrected. The darkspawn were certainly not people, grotesque monsters warped and twisted by blight. A few of the mages at the table shuddered. Nethalia did not up with tales of darkspawn, as her Rivaini parents were far more concerned with the encroaching Qunari than distant monsters. The darkspawn intrigued her more than scared her. 

“I heard the darkspawn eat the enemies they kill in battle.” Melva added somberly. She was still shooting glares at Ana but she was recovered enough to chime in. 

“I doubt they wait 'til you’re dead.” Soloma added cheerfully. 

“Do you suppose anyone will try to escape on the way?” Jowan asked. 

“Shhh!” Anna hisses at the same time Nethalia said, “Don’t say that.” 

“I don't think so,” Soloma said quietly, “They're sending two Templars for every mage. I doubt anyone is going to piss in private let alone have enough freedom to run off. It’d be easier for someone to escape the Tower while all of the Templars are headed south.” 

Jowan straightened in his seat and a jolt of shock sent Nethalia’s stomach fluttering. She’d been so caught up in her work she had not considered how empty the tower would be. Of course Knight Commander Gregoir and the other high ranking officers would be staying, but they had a great deal of administrative duties to occupy their time. 

Nethalia jumped when a armored hand came down on her shoulder, dropping her spoon into her lap. “I need three of you to come with me.” Phillipe’s voice sounded above her and she shrank down in her seat even more. If he heard what they were discussing, they could all be made tranquil. 

“What for?” Jowan asked, his voice tight with fear. 

“For cleaning duty.” He said, squeezing Nethalia’s shoulder. 

“But that’s a tranquil’s job.” Ana ground out. 

“And the tranquil are working on making sure your friends don’t get torn apart by darkspawn.” His voice made it clear he’d cared only that he wouldn’t be around to watch it happen. Even Ana shrunk under his gaze. 

He scanned the faces at the table each fascinated by the contents of their bowl. “So you,” He pointed to Ana, “You,” at Kellie who’d been silent for the exchange, “And you.” He leered over Nethalia’s shoulder at her and she schooled her face into a neutral expression. 

Her companions faces were grim as they departed, only Soloma rising to go after them. Jowan gripped her sleeve to keep her by his side. Nethalia flashed a brief assuring smile as her fiery friend disappeared from view. 

Phillipe led the trio up the stairs stopping only to gather supplies. The buckets were already filled with warm water, and Kellie struggled so much as they made their way up the stairs she's thoroughly soaked Nethalia’s shoes before they crested the first staircase. “Give it here.” Nethalia snapped prying the bucket from the woman’s hands and passing her the mops she’d been carrying. Ana walked silently behind them, a scathing glare fixed upon Phillipe’s back and they climbed. He didn’t bother looking back to make sure they were still following, and they didn’t dare sneak off. 

They stopped briefly in front of a door to a floor Nethalia had never been to. Phillipe said something to the Templar guarding it and Ana leaned forward, whispering in her ear, “Whatever you do, stay together.” 

“I can’t think of a safer place in the tower.” Kellie said as she walked through the doorway into the Templars quarters. The door closed behind them and Nethalia’s back was stiff with unease. It didn’t look too different from any of the other floors, high ceilings, stained glass windows. She was in a parlour of sorts, there were several tables scattered around the room. In the center of the room closed off by stone archway and wrought iron panels stood two men, sparring shirtless. Racks of weapons lined the wall and some haggard straw dummies leaned against the wall. One of the dummies was in a dress, startinling similar the the robes that clung to Nethalia’s skin. 

“You two get to scrubbing,” Phillipe gestured to Ana and Kellie, “And you change the linens in the rooms.” 

Nethalia stayed rooted in place, Ana’s warning echoing in her ears. Most of the Templars were on duty, elsewhere in the tower, but surely not all. 

“Oi? You hear me? Would you rather empty the pots instead?” Phillipe barked.

Nethalia set the bucket down and kept her eyes down as she scrambled past him. Ana tried to meet her eyes but Nethalia simply turned down the rounding hall and knocked on the first door she saw. “What?” A woman wrenched the door open and Nethalia did her best to stand straight. 

“I’m here to change the linens.” She said. 

The woman scowled at her, “Then where are the clean ones?” 

Nethalia cursed under her breath and curtseyed before she scampered down the hall to the linen closet. She found a rickety cart already loaded up with fresh linens waiting for her. She could almost fool herself into believing she was back in the Cousland estate. It was exhausting work, but leagues above what many of her brethren did for coin. Toiling away under cruel masters, suckling round-eared babes that too would grow cruel with age and power. Nethalia never expected much more for herself, she couldn’t. Aela was the dreamer of the pair, always scraping and clawing for more than the lot she was given. 

Nethalia heaved a sigh and pushed the cart past the training men once more. She turned her gaze from where Phillipe leered at Kellie on her hands and knees as she scrubbed the floor. Instead her eyes settled on the men locked in mock battle. She slowed for a moment watching the larger man whirl and knock the sword out of his opponents hands. Thick muscles corded his bare back and arms. His skin glistened with sweat, and his hair hung damply across his brow. His trousers hung low on his hips and Nethaia’s face warmed as she spied the soft hair under his naval disappear beneath his breeches. She startled when he turned his smiling face towards her and she realized she’d been ogling Cullen. 

She pushed her cart and ducked into the nearest room, letting her hair fall across her face like a curtain. Nethalia made quick work of the linens as she fell into a familiar rhythm. Most rooms were unoccupied and she was in and out before anyone noticed her. The occupied rooms were slower as the often disgruntled templars watched her work with crossed arms or blade in hand. She lightly rapped her knuckles on a wooden door and waited for a response. She pushed inward bracing herself for an angry groggy templar, but she was graced only with a quiet empty room.

It was better kept than most rooms, though a few items of clothing were strewn across the floor. She stooped to pick up a pair of socks with the initials ‘CR’ in clumsy red stitching. She dropped them atop the chest at the foot of the bed and got to work. She replaced the soiled bedding and set the pillow back across the head. She fluffed it and was hit with an overwhelmingly familiar scent. A spot of white drew her attention to the nightstand and a limp Gardenia sat in a jar half filled with water beside an unlit lantern. 

He’d kept it. 

She smiled to herself and gently livened up the plant, lifting the petals and chasing away the brown at the edges. She picked the pillow back up and buried her face in it, inhaling deeply. A pleasant thrill roiled low in her belly. The sound of metal hitting stone chimed and Nethalia cursed as she watched a small coin roll under the bed. The last thing she needed was to be accused of stealing it and have to explain how it fell out from the pillow in the first place. She crouched down and pressed her cheek against the cool stone to peer under the bed. 

_“Merda.”_ The coin had settled itself against the wall furthest from her. She yanked on the bed, but it scraped only a fingers width away from the wall and sweat already beaded at her brown. Nethalia blew an errant curl out of her face and rolled up her sleeves. She lay down and crawled on her belly like a snake under the edge, pushing a stray book out of her way. Dust assaulted her nose and bits of straw from the matress poked at her. She strained reaching her arm out her fingers just barely grazing the edge of the coin, pushing it further from her grasp. 

“Come on.” she muttered, she kicked her legs, digging her toe into a ridge in the floor to push herself waist deep under the bed. Her fingers closed around the edges of the coin. A victorious hiss escaped from her lips and she pushed her palms out against the floor to slide herself out. Her hands slid in the dust and her dress caught on something in the bedframe, a loose nail perhaps.

“No, no, no, Come on!” She gritted out in her native tongue, kicking and pushing with all her might, but she remained firmly wedged. The space was growing hot and Nethalia coughed, from the dust she’d kicked up. She flailed her legs and cursed managing only to roll onto her back. Her robes twisting around her chest tightly. 

_“Nethalia?”_ Cullen’s voice called tentatively from somewhere in the room.

A sound escaped her, the bastard child of a cry and groan.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his voice closer to the opening in the bed. The area around her darkened and she could see supple black leather boots and taught linen breeches stretched across broad thighs as he crouched beside her feet.

“Of course.” She said. Quickly. 

“What are you doing?”

“I was changing the linens.” 

“From under the bed?” He asked, bemusement alight in his voice. 

“I’m stuck.” She whispered. 

“Pardon?” Cullen asked. She couldn’t tell if he was toying with her.

“I’m stuck!” She repeated shrilly. 

He started at her tone,“Do you want me to get someone? Ana is still-”

“Maker no!” She yelped, it was mortifying enough as is. She couldn’t imagine what would happen if Ana learned she gotten herself stuck under a templar’s bed chasing after his trinkets. “Can you help me?” She pleaded. 

“Let me see what I can do.” He said, after a moment.

He stood up and she felt him crouch in front of her feet. “I’m going to pull you by your legs, is that okay?” He asked, his voice less humorous than it was a moment ago. 

“Yes,” She pleaded, “Anything.” 

He shifted and wrapped a large callused hand around each of her ankles. He started slowly, drawing her out carefully but he stopped when her dress pulled, snagged on a cracked board. Her robes were pulled tagged against her chest, making it nearly impossible to breath. She felt him shift once more and the pressure increased on her ankles. She popped out at once, the sound of tearing fabric loud in her ear. 

She blinked wide eyed back up at Cullen and he stared back at her, her face flushed and sweaty, dust bunnies hanging off the ends of her hair. He burst out laughing and Nethalia seethed. She sat up on her elbows and threw the traitorous coin over his shoulder fiercely. 

“Is that why you were under the bed?” He asked turning to look at her, a gentle smile still dancing on his lips. 

“It fell when I was changing the linens.” She said, her face hot. 

“Thank you, though you needn’t have troubled yourself so.” He said, his eyes dropping down to her shoulder where the fabric hung down exposing her collar bones and a small bit of her chest. “It’s purely a sentimental treasure

Nethalia’s face changed from scarlett to a deep burgundy as she realized he was still bare chested, crouched between her hiked up robes, a hand on either of her ankles. A scorching heat bloomed when their eyes met, sending a jolt straight down into her belly. 

Cullen, finally seeming to notice the impropriety of their situation scrambled back quickly. A deep flush raced from his cheeks all the way down to his muscled chest and even lower, making the fine blond hair at his naval stand out against his skin. His hips cut sharply into the waistband of his breeches and the idea of her fingers following the path down to more delicate places made her swallow hard. Nethalia stood quickly making a show of dusting off her dress and hair

“Unless you need me for anything else I’ll be going.” She belted out making an undignified rush for the door. 

“Wait I-” Cullen called after her. His hand on the back of his neck. 

Nethalia pried the door open slamming face first into a suited Templar. He grabbed her by the arms to steady her and she watched him take in th scene before him. Her bare, skin, messy hair and flushed cheeks. She felt, more than saw the grin creep up across his face as his eyes went between her and Cullen. 

“So that’s what you’ve been getting up to.” Phillipe’s voice slid across her like oil. 

“I wasn’t-” 

“I didn’t think you had the balls, Rutherford.” Phillipe said, his grip tightening on her arms, the metal edges of his gauntlets bruising her flesh. “If it’s a real man you’re after, I promise you I can show you things Cullen here has never dreamed of.” Phillipe whispered in her ear, his hot breath sending a chill down her spine. The image of Phillipe writhing in pain as vines encircled his throat came to her unbidden.

  
  


“That’s enough.” Cullen barked. He grabbed her by the arm and shoved Phillipe back. 

“Not keen on sharing? Last I checked you aren’t in charge of me.” 

Nethalia stood frozen between their bodies, wanting to flee, but Cullen still gripped her arm. 

“No but Gregoir is.” Cullen said, his voice low, the threat evident.

“I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear what _you’ve_ been up to.” Phillipe fired back.

“I’ll tell him about Ana.” Cullen said in a low voice. Nethalia’s eye darted back and forth between the men. A muscle flexed in Cullen’s jaw, his expression downright terrifying.

Phillipe considered him a moment before stepping back. Nethalia seized her moment and darted in the between them and fled the space. She thought she heard Cullen calling her name but she wanted nothing more than to be away from Phillipe. Nethalia brushed past the common room where Ana and Kellie still cleaned. 

She threw the door to the stairs open and took them two at a time. If the Templar guarding the door thought anything about her pace and torn dress he did not say. Nethalia finally slowed down when she rounded the corner, out of sight of both suits of armor at either end of the hallway. 

“Are you okay?” Ana called breathlessly behind her, she yanked dark strands of hair out of her mouth, but stilled when she saw the look on Nethalia’s face, her eyes dropped to her torn dress and she clenched her jaw. 

Ana pulled her into a fierce hold, speaking into her hair, “Did he hurt you?” It was so low Nethalia stopped breathing to listen.

Nethalia shook her head and started to explain, “Cullen h-”

Ana arms tightened vise-like around her. “I knew that goody-two shoes act was-”

“No,”Nethalia blurted, pulling back so Ana could see her face, “Cullen didn’t let him.” She said firmly. 

Ana didn’t need but a moment to realize who she meant. “Bastard.” She spat, her words venomous. “One day he will pay.” her voice cracked, but Nethalia felt the truth ringing loud and clear. Ana would make them all pay someday. 

*~*~*~*~*

Cullen wanted to chase after her, had tried to even, but after the scathing look from Ana he couldn’t bring himself to follow. Maybe Nethalia thought he’d been scheming with Phillipe to get her in his rooms, though truly he was as surprised to find her there as he would have been if the Revered Mother herself decided to pay him a visit. He worried the coin in his pocket, a gift from his brother when he’d first left for training. 

Instead he made his way to Gregoir’s office. When he tried to warn his commanding officer of Phillipe’s behavior, the man simply gave him a long taciturn look before asking, “Do you have any proof of this?”

Cullen’s explanation died on his tongue. He ha only guessed about Ana, and he wasn’t even sure about the nature of their relationship. If he told Gregoir about Phillipe, Phillipe would certainly tell the Knight Commander about what he’d seen in Cullen’s room. Not that he’d _seen_ anything. He could just tell him the truth, but if the Commander didn’t believe him, he risked putting both Nethalia and himself in danger. Cullen found himself cursing his cowardice once again on behalf of Nethalia. 

Though he looked, he hadn’t seen her for the remainder of that day and most of the next. The great hall was alive with music, and drunken laughter. Irving and Greagoir allowed a send off celebration for the mages marching south tomorrow, the first real glimpse of revelry he’d witnessed in his time in the tower. The song that played was a lively tavern tune, for couples to link arms and wind their way in circles about the floor. 

Nearly all the tenants of the tower were in attendance, save for the Templars and Tranquil attending duties elsewhere. Cullen even spied a Chantry sister laughing in the corner with Jowan. Amell, was nowhere to be seen, which worried him. 

He scanned the room and eventually found her among the dancers, dark curls sprinkled with tiny blue flowers, the tear in her robe stitched haphazardly across her shoulders. She threw her head back and laughed at something her dance partner said. A twinge of jealousy pricked at him, even though the boy was only just her height, and years younger. 

He should apologize to her, for putting her in a compromising position, for touching her like that, even if she had asked him to. Cullen shifted on his feet, his face growing hot once more. He was so concerned with not laughing at her he completely missed the way he’d knelt between her legs, hands around her ankles. _That look_ she’d given him... he suppressed a groan. 

The pair made their way to the edge of the dance floor, her chest heaving. The boy smiled at her with a face splitting grin and Cullen ventured the boy was sweet on her. Another elven apprentice approached her, and Nethalia dismissed the boy she’d been dancing with, her face growing solemn. The boy frowned and sulked away towards the table of food. Cullen felt a twinge of sympathy for him. 

Whatever the elven apprentice said made her face fall. She covered her mouth and shook her head. The apprentice stepped towards her, hands outstretched but she turned from him and quickly picked her way through the hall, bumping into people and stepping between couples. She darted out a door and Cullen fell into step behind her without a second thought.

*~*~*~*~*

Nethalia darted up the stairs across an empty hallway into the empty library. Tears began flowing from her eyes and she could not stop them. Something terrible happened in the Alienage, some elves killed a nobleman’s son, the reason unclear, and now the lord was letting the shem have their revenge on his behalf. They were under siege for a whole night before the Arl had the Alienage closed completely. No shem going in, and no elves out. The alienage was closed once before in her memory, and the sharp pangs of hunger and the calls of the wandering gangs still haunted her to this day. 

Eaddric didn’t know who was involved, he only knew that the elf charged with murdering the lord was taken away by a man in armor. His family managed to get a letter out before the mail was shut down. Nethalia prayed to the old gods and the new one, that her family was safe. That her friends were still alive. She had no way of finding out, everyone she knew outside the tower was locked inside those walls. 

Nethalia turned at the sound of metal footsteps. Her shoulders sagged in relief as a curly head of golden hair emerged from the helmet. Cullen set his helmet on the table beside them and rubbed at his neck. “Are you alright?” He asked, his brows furrowing, his arm dropped to his side. 

Nethalia locked eyes with him, it would be so easy to say yes, and dry her eyes. To pretend her heart wasn’t tearing itself apart. To let things be simple between them, easy.

She didn’t want easy. 

“No.” She choked out. Fresh tears dropping from her eyes faster than she could count. He closed the gap between them and she threw her arms around his middle. Smushing her face into the hard metal of his breastplate. He hesitated a moment before closing one arm around her the other going to stroke her hair. Once or twice his gloves snagged on a strand but she didn’t care. She hadn’t realized how much she missed that kind of touch. 

When her sobs slowed and her breathing evened out she pulled back to look at his face. He looked pained. “I’m so sorry if I crossed a line or If I made you feel unsafe-,”

“What?” Nethalia cut him off, she searched his face realizing he was agonizing over the moment they shared in his quarters. “Cullen,” she said his name firmly, “You didn’t do anything I didn’t ask you to. You saved me from Philippe, you have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“I don’t want you thinking he and I-” 

She pulled away and shook her head gently. “I know you’re not like that.” 

He sagged with relief from a burden she didn’t know weighed so heavily on him. From the table, he plucked a forget-me-not that freed itself from her hair and rolled the stem between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned against the table and she pulled herself up to sit beside him. “Why are you upset then?” he said, staring intently as the flower.

Nethalia smiled sadly and wiped her eyes. “I think something horrible has happened to my family.” 

Cullen shifted and turned towards her, his face changed suddenly, “You’re from the Denerim Alienage aren’t you?” 

She nodded, unwilling to explain further. He didn’t speak and they fell into a comfortable silence. She leaned her head against his arm, and he allowed it. Her attraction to him was natural, he was an attractive man as the other apprentices often gossiped. Nethalia knew she was drawn to more than what lay under his armor though, he was handsome and kind. She sipped the cup of wine she brought with her and wondered what would have happened if they met outside the tower. She could picture him as a smith’s apprentice, his strong arms hammering away at an anvil. Her a laundress, making every excuse she could to stop by and visit him. She wasn’t sure Aela would have liked him, she liked to tease, and she wasn’t sure how he’d handle her needling. Maybe the two of them would bicker like siblings. 

They were in the tower however, he a templar and she his treacherous charge. “I feel so alone here.” She murmured to herself, the wine shortening the path from her mind to her mouth. 

“You have people who care about you,” Cullen said turning to her, “Your family, Soloma, Jowan, Eaddric…” He trailed off, searching her face, “And me.” He finished. In the dim candle light it was impossible to be sure, but she though she spied a blush creeping up across his face. 

The fluttering in her stomach increased tenfold and Nethalia reached out to run a palm lightly down his cheek, smiling wistfully. The wine-earned confidence singing louder than any warnings in her mind. 

“Do I though?” She murmured, cupping his jaw. He mattered to her, differently than he was supposed to. She didn’t want Jowan the way she wanted him. Her thoughts drifted back to the feeling of him crouched between her legs, the heat and scent of sweat radiating off his skin. 

His eyes flitted from her palm, to her eyes then down to her mouth. “I-” he licked his lips. 

She leaned in and pressed a kiss against his cheek and he closed his eyes. Nethalia sat up straighter and guided him closer until he was standing across from her instead of beside her. She turned his head gently with her other hand and kissed the other cheek, letting the feeling of his skin against her lips bury itself in her mind. 

“You’ve been drinking…” Cullen breathed. His lips almost brushing her pointed ear. 

“Not as much as you think.” She said her face warming as she drew back to look at him.

He opened his eyes half lidded, his pupils wide and stark against the molten honey color of his irises. She tucked herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck pressing her lips against his hungrily. His stubble prickled against her mouth and a small sound escaped the back of her throat. He stiffened, pulling her against him with one arm wrapping around her waist, cupping the base of her head and tangling his hand in her hair with the other. Her mouth moved against his lips parting in time with each other, he inhaled sharply and Nethalia did not want to miss her opening. She slid her tongue out and lightly traced his upper lip, her efforts rewarded as he groaned against her mouth. 

A sound startled them both, Nethalia and Cullen jumped apart putting distance between them. Cullen turned towards the hall tucking her out of sight behind his broad shoulders. She didn’t hear anything above the pounding of her own heart. Nethalia had kissed before, of course, but not like that. Electricity crackled in her veins from her roots down to her toes, she glanced down at her fingertips twice half expecting to see her fingertips alight with it. She wondered if he felt the same, though it was nearly impossible to tell staring at her own reflection in the back of his armor. 

Cullen stayed still as a statue for a moment before relaxing his shoulders.

“We should go.” He said, not quite looking her in her eyes. 

Disappointment twinged in her chest. “But we-” 

“Shouldn’t have done that.” He cut in, running a hand through his hair mussing it far worse than she had moments before.

“Did you not like it?” Nethalia pressed, dropping down from the table, the feeling of his lips on hers still fresh in her mind. She stepped closer and he stepped back. 

“Maker, of course I,” He shook his head, “It’s inappropriate. I can’t, we can’t-” He let out a frustrated huff, “I’m a templar, you’re-”

“A mage? dangerous apostate? potential demon?’ She fired, bitterness creeping into each word. 

“No, I-” his face softened, pitying. This time he stepped closer and she retreated. Anger flared in her gut, boiling the butterflies alive. 

“Would cut me down given the order.” Nethalia hissed. “Kill me because of something I cannot change.” Rejection and shame burned her ears. Of course he didn't want her. 

“It is my duty, I’ve made vows.” He pleaded with her to understand, and she did, perfectly. 

She gathered her skirt and pushed past him into the dark, he did not follow her. 

  
  
  



End file.
